Queen and Country Book 3: Ex Inferno
by SheWhoScrawls
Summary: The waning of summer, 1888 brings with it a sweep of darkness that will be remembered for centuries to come. Five murders in the lowest of the slums will convince millions that the end is near. Can Sherlock Holmes and the Baker Street gang be the ones to end this killer's game once and for all?
1. Prologue

_A/N: Welcome to book 3 of my series **Queen and Country**! You must really be invested if you clicked on book 3! Thank you! If you have not read the first two installments, **Proof of Concept** and **A Necessary End** , I really would recommend you do that first! I'm big on overarching plots, intense foreshadowing, and continuity, so reading in order is best if you want to pick up on things. This story is my current project at this time of publication, and I do as of now have 13 chapters complete, but I wanted to get it out there, so I'll update it as I write. _

_Now, on the story: This is about the Jack the Ripper murders of Autumn, 1888, often called the Autumn of Terror. It's been a subject of interest of mine for about five years, and not only that, but a detective series? Set in London? In the 1880's? How could I pass that up? Anyway, google the murders if you're interested. For an overview, however: five prostitutes were murdered. They were part of a longer-reaching group of deaths commonly called The Whitechapel Murders. HOWEVER, it is important to note that all of those murders could not have been committed by a single person. Jack the Ripper's crimes only account for a small percentage of those murders. These five murders are separated by their M.O. of brutally mutilating the genitals and abdomen of the victims. Yes, I know, it's horrifying. I'm hyperempathetic and it can be painful to read the autopsy reports. The perpetrator of these deaths was never caught. Now, the majority of the information on the case itself in this story is all accurate. But there are some circumstances/behind the scenes occurrences that are fudged because of lack of surviving records. (Gaps in the narrative are very helpful to me in explaining the whole thing, because it furthers my ability to make a plausible case for suspects I have found in my study of the evidence. This is why I write fiction.) So, DO NOT use this story as a historical resource on these murders. **www . casebook . org** is my main resource, spaced out so it'll show up in the document, and it's a fantastic site with a cornucopia of information. Use that. _

_In conclusion, I apologize for the extended author's note. Please enjoy and leave a review with your thoughts, comments, and/or questions. Cheers! - Ell_

* * *

Ex Inferno (Latin, translated: _From Hell)_

* * *

" _Hell is empty, and all the devils are here."_

 _-William Shakespeare_

* * *

Prologue: The River of Blood

" _Thus saith the Lord, In this thou shalt know that I am the Lord: behold, I will smite the rod that is in mine hand upon the waters which are in the river, and they shall be turned to blood."_

 _-Exodus 7:17_

* * *

Summer was coming to an end. Great grey rain clouds had rolled in over London, and the East End was drenched by the sheets of rain that fell like millions of tears from heaven.

The districts of Whitechapel and Spitalfields were full of filth. It coated the streets, lined the edges of the buildings in piles that gradually packed themselves down and moulded to the ground. When the rains came, bits of waste and garbage were washed away from the piles and further flooded the streets. Sometimes they didn't make it all the way to the pavement, simply falling into the sewer drains and clogging them so that the puddles could not drain away. Because of this, the dirty brown puddles of water were a common sight in the area, more often than not a permanent resident as precipitation occurred multiple times a week. They were almost as common as the dosses. Penniless women whose only source of income was begging at best and prostitution at worst. They could be seen on the steps of whatever buildings were merciful enough to not shoo them away, many of them too weak from starvation to stand.

On this particular night, a stranger calmly walked the Whitechapel Road. He was wearing a dark overcoat with a small golden pin on the lapel. Rain rolled off of his stiff, brown hat. He looked out of the corner of his eye at the dosses with something that many would have interpreted as pity.

Hardly anyone dared to be out in the cool night and freezing rain. The stranger passed a man who was standing with his back to the pavement, bent over and struggling to light a cigarette with rain slicked fingers. As he continued to make his way leisurely down the road, he bumped into a woman who was hurriedly making her way in the opposite direction.

"Sorry, sir," she muttered breathlessly as she passed him.

He caught her arm as she tried to walk away.

She inhaled sharply. "Sir?"

The stranger looked her up and down. Her dress was a rusty colour, and the gold buttons down the front were worn from being undone many times. "Take this," he said, pulling a sixpence from the pocket inside his coat. In the process, his hand brushed against cool, smooth metal, but he ignored it. "Get yourself out of the rain."

Her face lit up considerably as she saw the coin. "Thank you sir," she said, taking it from his hand and giving a slight curtsy before turning and walking away.

He gave a half smile as he watched her and waited until she was a safe distance away before turning to follow. The time was eleven o'clock at night.

* * *

There were two dock fires raging on this night, giving the dark sky a burning reddish glow and illuminating the thick clouds from which the rain fell hard with a steady and monotonous rhythm. Occasional rumbles of thunder shook the windows of the Frying Pan, a drinking establishment on the corner of Brick Lane and Thrawl Street. It was busy, and the loud bustle from inside could be heard as the light spilled out onto the street, giving a glowing spotlight to each individual drop of rain as it hit the ground, altogether forming an endlessly repetitive dance.

The stranger stood on the sidewalk outside the pub, casually leaning against the brick outface of the building, shielded from the rain by the awning. His hat was pulled down, casting a shadow over his eyes, and he leaned his head back to study the fiery glow coming from St. Katherine's Dock to the south. It had most likely been started by a lightning strike, he concluded, a smile flitting across his face. The heavens were angry tonight, and with good reason. They could try and deter him all they liked, but they would not succeed. This stranger in the dark coat, who purposely remained bathed in shadow, had the power, and he knew it too well.

He turned his gaze from the sky to the ground, watching with great interest the individual drops of rain as they fell, observing the small splash they made as they hit the ground and exploded from the impact. Another smile as he imagined the trouble the weather would cause for those who would follow in his wake.

A loud laugh and voices approaching the door caught his attention, and he pulled his hat lower over his face and pulled his coat closer around him. The shadow cast by the brim of his hat allowed him to watch others in the vicinity without them having any idea of it. The strains of fiddle music started up in the pub, and a loud cheer rose among those still inside.

"Oh, Mary, if you be leavin' you'll miss the music!" said one of the two women who had just stepped outside, speaking in a heavy Irish accent.

"No, I really must be off," replied the other woman in a voice slightly slurred with drink. This was the one the stranger had run into earlier that night. "Thank you for the bonnet."

The first woman shrugged and turned to go back into the pub. The other, Mary, pulled a dark brown cloak tighter around her shoulders and set off down Thrawl Street.

The stranger peeled himself off the side of the wet building and followed behind her once again, his footfalls light as a cat's. The time was half past twelve.

* * *

The man in the dark coat stood across from number 18, Thrawl Street. This address was that of a doss house, which gave food and bedding to any of the unfortunate women from the street who could afford to pay the nightly fee of fourpence. How they came by the money was never questioned.

The woman in the rusty cloak and dress stood on the steps of the doss house, shaking her finger at someone standing in the doorway. "Never mind!" she said loudly, obviously drunk. "I'll soon get my doss money! See what a jolly bonnet I've got now!" She gestured at the bonnet now covering her hair. She hadn't been wearing it the first time he'd met her. It had been given to her by the Irish woman at the pub.

The figure in the doorway, whom the stranger could not clearly make out, waved their hand dismissively and turned away, closing the door behind them to keep out the rain.

Mary mumbled an inarticulate curse and turned to the street, looking both ways as if considering which way to go before heading in the direction of the Whitechapel Road, staggering slightly with each step she took.

Her shadow continued to follow behind her, closer this time as he considered the weight inside the left pocket of his coat. No, not yet. Too soon.

The time was three quarters past one.

* * *

"Polly!" Cried a woman who was turning onto the Whitechapel Road from Osborn Street.

"G'evening to you, Emily," replied Mary, coming to a staggering halt, and the two women embraced.

"I've been down to the docks to see the fire," said Emily, gesturing behind her at the way from which she'd come. "Shouldn't ya be at the doss house by now? Surely you've plied your trade a decent amount tonight, eh?"

Mary, or Polly, shrugged. "I've had my doss money three times today and spent it."

The two women continued talking for several more minutes. The stranger was not interested in straining to hear what they were saying over the loud patter of rain on the pavement. He'd have to get closer. He couldn't risk that. Couldn't risk being seen. About five yards or so away from where the women were standing, he ducked into an archway and fished a cigarette and a match out of his pocket. He cupped his hand over the flame so it wouldn't go out and lit the cigarette, puffing it absently as he kept the woman in the rusty cloak in his peripheral vision.

After exchanging goodnights with Emily, Mary turned to head east down the Whitechapel Road. The stranger let his cigarette fall to the ground and set off behind her once again. The abandoned cigarette smouldered and instantly turned soggy. The time was half past two.

* * *

The woman in the bonnet, named either Mary or Polly, turned onto Buck's Row. The stranger now knew her to be a prostitute. He had just seen her speaking with a man and then entering an alley with him. He had heard the sound of three pennies falling into her hand.

Her shadow suddenly departed from her, turning into a side alley he knew led further up the street. He would overtake her there. His coat billowed in the wind as he swiftly walked, and his hand involuntarily made its way into the inside pocket, absently fingering the pleasantly smooth handle. Not yet. Not immediately. He let out a stream of air through his mouth and dropped his hand to his side, considering carefully the instructions he had been given.

Soon enough he was on Buck's Row once again. And with excellent timing, for the woman was just making her way in his direction. He strode confidently up to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

She looked up into his face with alarm. "Oh, it's you, sir, we met earlier." Something in her voice suggested she knew something was amiss. Much depended on his convincing her otherwise.

He smiled. "Yes, fancy us meeting again. It's a good thing too, I was just looking for someone to occupy one of those alleys with, if you'd be at all…interested." He made a point of looking her up and down, resting his eyes for a moment on her bosom, part of which was showing through her cloak, which was now not all the way buttoned up.

Her suspicious demeanour vanished, and she gave him a slight nod. "That'll be three pence," she said, and he pulled some coins out of his pocket and dropped them into her hand.

"That's four pence, sir," she said, looking them over.

He smiled. "For your trouble."

She gave him a sort of questioning look, but said nothing about it. "We'd best make it quick," she said with a surreptitious glance around. "The constables will be due by on their beat before too long."

She took him by the arm and led him to the entrance of a stable yard.

She motioned for him to get behind her and began hiking up her skirt.

"You know," he said to her, fingering the cold handle within his left breast pocket again, "you truly should have gotten off the street while you could, rather than going off and spending that sixpence I gave you on drink."

Mary froze, stiffly dropping her skirts and straightening up. "What are you –"

Before she could finish her sentence, he grabbed her with his left arm and pulled her closer to him. She opened her mouth to scream, but he took a hold of either side of her jaw and pulled her head back. With one swift motion, he pulled the knife from his coat pocket and held it to her throat. She made a sort of small whimper, and he could feel her rigid, quaking muscles against him.

Terrified, the creature fought back, clawing and scraping at the hands that held her, but he only gripped her tighter.

Pressure and a slow, deliberate dragging motion across her neck. He felt the tear of flesh underneath his command. The head fell limply backward and he carefully laid her down on the ground, pulling her into the shadow of the gateway. He saw blood oozing from her neck and dripping out of her mouth as he gazed down at her. He reached into her pocket and took out the four pence he'd given her. "You won't be needing this, my dear," he murmured, kneeling on the ground and lifting up her skirts to start the next part of his work.

The blood flowed from her neck and joined the streams of water draining into the gutter. A scarlet trickle mixed with the rain. A river of blood in the midst of an ocean. The time was half past three.

* * *

I awoke with a start, breathing heavy and drenched head to toe in a cold sweat. I wasn't sure at first what had pulled me out of my slumber. The rain outside the window was loud, and accompanied by intermittent crashes of thunder, but that could not have been it. It had been raining all night long, and indeed, it had been one of the wettest summers London had ever seen. Listening for a few minutes longer, I could barely make out voices speaking outside in the hallway. They were hushed, and no wonder, for it must have been close to three or four in the morning.

"I'll fetch Watson," said Holmes to someone whose identity was unknown to me.

A moment later, I heard two pairs of footsteps returning to the spot outside my door, and three hushed voices conversing. They all trod lightly down the stairs, and I faintly heard the sound of the front door closing. I lay in silence, pondering what the urgent matter could have been until sleep overtook me again.


	2. Chapter 1

Part 1 : Murder and Misdeeds

" _O eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears;_

 _O life, no life, but lively form of death;_

 _O world, no world, but mass of public wrongs,_

 _Confused and filled with murder and misdeeds."_

 _-Thomas Kyd_

* * *

Chapter 1

* * *

Holmes and my brother were still absent the following morning when I woke up. The morning was dark and cloudy, remnants of the storm from the night before. A distinctly unsettled feeling swept over me the moment I opened my eyes, but I could not place from whence it came.

Something was most definitely amiss. Something not of the usual was happening in London.

It was chilly, as this summer had been one of the coldest in anybody's memory, so I wrapped my dressing gown around myself and crossed to the window, looking out upon the great metropolis. The clouds were a deep grey, rolling and rumbling their way away from the city. I turned my eyes to the ground below me. There were clusters of people gathered all around the street, talking amongst themselves and holding newspapers. I narrowed my eyes. Something had caught the attention of the public. Could it have anything to do with the mysterious caller Holmes had received in the middle of the night?

The feeling of unrest continued to plague me as I dressed and left my room to go down the stairs. With only myself home, I wouldn't bother ringing for breakfast. I'd just go down and eat with Mrs. Hudson.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, the foyer was empty, and I could not hear any of the usual sounds of a Friday morning. Mrs. Hudson was not washing dishes, nor was she cooking, or doing the laundry. Indeed, I began to get the feeling that she wasn't at home, which made me all the more suspicious, and I warily returned upstairs and entered the sitting room.

Our landlady was sitting at the table, with an untouched plate of kippers in front of her. She had set a plate out for me as well. I eyed her as I sat down. The food was growing cold. She had been sitting with it in front of her for some time, but not a single bite had been taken, and she looked extremely pale and shaken.

Mrs. Hudson had dealt with Sherlock Holmes occupying the rooms at 221B Baker Street for more than seven years. She had, in those years, been awoken by discomfiting sounds at all hours of the night, received visitors of the most unsavoury kind, and seen far more blood than any average woman has to. After all of this, she was not easily disturbed.

What could have unsettled her so? Why had I felt so unsettled myself after waking up? And why had Holmes and John not returned? My breath caught in my throat for an instant as I considered that something had happened to one or both of them.

"What is the matter?" I asked her, not yet helping myself to any of the half-cold food. I had no appetite until I was sure that my flatmates were safe.

Mrs. Hudson afforded a kindly smile at me. It did not fool me for one second. Her mouth shook with the effort of forcing a positive expression. "It's nothing, dear," she said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Not particularly," I replied, staring at my plate.

"Well, that's no strange thing. That storm must have had people awake from here to Manchester."

There was something she wasn't telling me, and it had to do with what I'd overheard the night before, so I had no intentions of telling her that my fitful sleep had nothing to do with the storm. Instead, I fiddled with my fork for a moment before asking the question a part of me was genuinely afraid to have answered. "Are Holmes and John all right?"

"They're fine, dear," she said, reaching over and putting a warm hand on top of mine, squeezing gently. I believed her. This statement was far more genuine than her previous reassurance. "Now hurry up and get some food, before it gets cold!"

I was entirely certain that it was about twenty minutes too late to imply that the food still had any semblance of warmth to it, but I helped myself to a couple of spoons full anyway. Despite her solacing that my companions were all right, my intuition was still screaming that something was very wrong, and I knew that I would not be able to eat much.

The kippers were very stiff and chewy eaten cold, so I forced myself to pick at as much of it as I could and then washed it down with a few sips of tea. "Thank you for breakfast, Mrs. Hudson," I said, giving her a smile, even though it was less than nourishing and did nothing to assuage my fears as hearty English breakfasts normally did.

She stood and collected the dishes and the tray, patting me on the shoulder as she did so. "You're welcome, dear. Now I'm going to do the washing up, come fetch me if you need anything."

I picked up my tea cup and rose from the table, carrying it to the sofa to finish drinking it. As I was passing by the cluttered side table on which Holmes stored all of his stacks of newspapers, something caught my eye. The corner of a newspaper that had been stuffed down between Holmes' armchair and the table. It had not been there yesterday, and it was not bent as it would be if it had fallen. No, this was today's newspaper, the _Pall Mall Gazette,_ judging from the bit of print I could see at the top. And it had been purposely hidden from my view. There was something that I was being protected from. So naturally, I bent down to pick it up, sliding my tea cup carefully onto the table.

I straightened up and unfolded the newspaper to read the headline. _Horrible Murder In East London,_ it read. _Another Whitechapel Mystery._ My breath caught in my throat. Of course I recalled the earlier murders of the Whitechapel districts. Several of the unfortunates had been found with their throats slit, and Holmes and my brother had been a part of the investigations. But they were not anything that they had been urgently summoned in the middle of the night for, and they were certainly not anything that had been actively kept from me. So what on earth could be different this time? I went on to skim the article to find out.

 _Scarcely has the horror and sensation caused by the discovery of the murdered woman in Whitechapel some short time ago had time to abate, when another discovery is made, which, for the brutality exercised on the victim, is even more shocking, and will no doubt create as great a sensation in the vicinity as its predecessor. The affair up to the present is enveloped in complete mystery, and the police have as yet no evidence to trace the perpetrators of the horrible deed. The facts are that as Constable John Neil was walking down Buck's Row, Thomas Street, Whitechapel, about a quarter to four o'clock this morning, he discovered a woman between thirty-five and forty years of age lying at the side of the street with her throat cut right open from ear to ear, the instrument with which the deed was done tracing the throat from left to right. The wound was an inch wide, and blood was flowing profusely. She was immediately conveyed to the Whitechapel Mortuary, when it was found that besides the wound in the throat the lower part of the abdomen was completely ripped open, with the bowels protruding. The wound extends nearly to her breast and must have been effected with a large knife. As the corpse lies in the mortuary it presents a ghastly sight. The victim seems to be between thirty-five and forty years of age, and measures five feet two inches in height. The hair is dark - features small. The hands are bruised, and bear evidence of having been engaged in a severe struggle. There is the impression of a ring having been worn on one of deceased's fingers, but there is nothing to show that it had been wrenched from her in a struggle. Some of the front teeth have also been knocked out, and the face is bruised on both cheeks and very much discoloured. Deceased wore a rough brown ulster with large buttons in front, a brown dress and a petticoat which bears the name of the Lambeth Workhouse. The clothes are torn and cut up in several places, bearing evidence of the ferocity with which the murder was committed. A night watchman was in the street where the crime was committed, but he heard no screams and saw no signs of the scuffle. The body was quite warm when taken to the mortuary at half-past four this morning._

My hand flew up to cover my mouth as I read. I remembered the case of Emma Smith, who had been beaten to death by a Whitechapel gang in April, and also that of Martha Tabram, who was viciously stabbed over three dozen times earlier in this month, but this far exceeded either case in many ways. Certainly, an insane killer might slit a woman's throat or stab her over and over in a fit of rage, but this was different. Never before had I heard of the body being opened up in such a manner outside of medical dissections, and certainly not in a murder. What purpose would it serve, and who would dare to do such a ghastly thing?

I understood now why I might be kept from such a thing. That area of a woman being exposed and cut into was hideously inacceptable, and indeed the idea that it could have happened was altogether terrifying.

So that's what had warranted Holmes and John being roused at such an ungodly hour of the morning.

Nicole. I needed to see Nicole. I realised that although she had given me the address of her sister's home on Eversholt Street, I had never actually had occasion to visit. When I wished to meet her, I had always sent her a telegram by post. I needed to speak with her. I was craving interaction with someone whom I wholeheartedly trusted, and I certainly could not go searching for Andrew at Scotland Yard. Not when there was a horribly mutilated prostitute that I was not supposed to know about.

Hearing the footsteps of Mrs. Hudson upon the stairs once again, I hurriedly stuffed the paper back where I had found it, downed the rest of my tea in a swift gulp, and pretended to be searching for a stick of wax inside my brother's desk.

Mrs. Hudson thankfully seemed to take no notice of me. I turned around a moment later to see that she had a duster and was going around the bookshelves.

"I'm going to Nicole's," I told her, hoping that she was distracted enough that she would do nothing to try and stop me.

She didn't reply, and I prayed that she had indeed heard me as I snatched a cloak from the rack and threw it over me as I took the steps two by two and hurried out the door.

* * *

Number 19, Eversholt Street was a stately enough residence just up the road from Euston Station. It was white on the outside, with columns styled after Greek architecture creating a sort of framework for the doorway. A bay window looked out on the street, around which was a delicate trim, like icing around the edge of a cake. I did not even have to knock on the door, for there was a face in the bay window that I recognized very well, and upon seeing me, her mouth dropped open in surprise and she leapt up and ran off. Not more than five seconds later, the door opened, and a delighted Nicole squealed and embraced me before I even had a chance to say hello.

Breathlessly, she pulled back after a second. "I know why you're here," she said.

"They didn't want me to know," I said grimly in reply.

Nicole looked strangely at me for a second, obviously not comprehending what I was talking about, and for a long moment we simply stood on the steps of the house, staring at each other. Seeming to realize this, she grabbed my arm. "Come inside," she said. "We'll talk there."

I followed her inside and she closed the door behind us, exhaling deeply as if she'd been holding her breath the whole time we'd been standing outside.

"You all right?" I asked her.

She nodded. "I am. It's just…slightly terrifying. This man is a monster. He's killed four people now."

I shook my head. "Despite what the papers might be saying, I don't think he has. The others were…different."

"Who's even saying it's a man?" called a voice from the other room. The accent was less pronounced and dignified than Nicole's. It was that of someone who had obviously spent a good deal of time in America before returning to London.

Nicole's face flushed. "Oh! You haven't met my sister. Come into the parlour."

I followed her through a doorway on the left side of the foyer. It was a small space, about the size of the sitting room in Baker Street, but far less cluttered. I supposed this must be normal, for not everyone lived with Sherlock Holmes, whose only idea of how to keep tidy was to make things as untidy as possible and hope that others cleaned up after him. There was a red sofa, and a divan and an armchair off to the side, all arranged with side tables by each article of furniture around the fireplace, which was trimmed with the same frosted white design as the outside of the house.

On the divan was a rather tall young woman with hair the colour of chocolate who was wearing a high necked royal blue dress with white ruffles on the bodice. She had a long nose that was slightly upturned at the end and brown eyes that seemed to reflect her hair.

"Emily," said Nicole, "this is my sister Lucy."

Lucy Camberwell gave me a smile over the book she was holding in front of her. "Hello," she greeted me. "Nicole's been telling me a lot about you. Although she seems a lot more keen to search for criminals than for a nice man, and I suspect you hold the blame for that."

"As if you're one to talk, Lucy," retorted Nicole, rolling her eyes. "I don't see a man in this house."

"That's because I didn't _need_ a man when I was your age," answered Lucy. "I had – have, that is – Father's money."

Nicole made a small noise under her breath and sat down on the sofa, and I perched delicately beside her.

"So Emily, what do you think of the papers this morning? The murder in Whitechapel, that is?" asked Lucy.

"Well," I replied cautiously. "That's rather the reason I'm here. Holmes, John, Mrs. Hudson, they didn't want me to know about it."

"Why ever not?" Nicole cocked her head, narrowing her eyes in confusion. "It's in the newspaper, for heaven's sake. Everyone in London is going to know about it soon enough. From the looks of the streets, they already do. Gossip travels even faster than the news does."

I shook my head. "I don't know why. Maybe they think that I'd be in danger if I was on the case?"

Lucy let out a laugh. "I highly doubt it. If they wanted to keep you out of danger, you would have never been allowed on any cases."

She was right. It couldn't have been a concern for my safety. And did they really believe that it was too gruesome for me? It was shocking and hideous, yes, but I wasn't unaccustomed to such things. Deception and trickery were all about, the fact that such people as Sherlock Holmes were needed attested to that, but now the deceit had leaked into our personal lives as well. And the fact that they didn't want me to know made me all the more resolved to force my way into the matter. I was not going to be kept in the dark.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

"Suppose it is noticed how long you've been absent, and I am asked if you were here," Lucy said to me airily, leaning against the parlour doorway as I fastened my cloak around my shoulders and waited for Nicole to return downstairs.

"Nicole and I went to Piccadilly Circus, we will be home by mid-afternoon," I replied, adjusting my neckline and turning my attention to the sound of Nicole's hurried footsteps on the stairs.

"Are you ready?" she asked me, slightly out of breath.

I took in her appearance. Nicole had changed into a plain, rather worn dress, perfect for our outing. Then I looked down at my own attire, slightly more crisp. Well, I'd certainly be slightly more out of place.

"Do you want to change?" Nicole asked me, observing my disdainful look at my choice of clothing.

"Nonsense, you'll be fine," Lucy said, dismissing the issue with a wave of her hand. "The beauty of the lower classes is that they wear what they can find. Some are ragged, some are not. Just make sure you get a little dusty, and you'll be fine. Now off with you! Be safe, and enjoy the _market._ "

I nodded, and Nicole pecked her sister on the cheek, and just like that we were being shooed out the door.

* * *

The closer we got to Buck's Row, the more crowded and cramped the streets became. Not only were the clusters of whispering pedestrians growing as we went along, but the buildings were taller and closer together. The overall appearance of the street was growing steadily shabbier, and the buildings loomed overhead, much like the trees in Rosedale Abbey, Nicole's old home. I could see from the apprehensive way that she kept looking upwards that she sensed the same similarity.

"Over here," Nicole whispered, pulling me into a narrow alley beside a small and rather lopsided pub. I almost gagged at the putrid smell of alcohol from the building mixed with filth and drying vomit in the alley.

"Nicole, what –" I started, placing a hand over my nose and trying to breath around the stench.

She reached into a crevice in the wall where a brick was chipped and withdrew her hand after a moment, fingers and palms coated in dust. "Smear a bit on your face and skirt," she murmured, casting glances at either end of the alley to be sure no one was coming our way.

I nodded mutely and followed her actions, coating my hands in dust and powdering it along the edges of my skirt and smearing subtle stripes of it down my cheeks.

After cloaking ourselves with the dusty pallor of the East End, we slipped out the other side of the alley onto Brick Lane, where the crowds were so thick that carriages would have no room to pass.

It was not hard from there to follow people's anxious and excited chatter into Buck's Row. A small crowd was gathered in front of a building with a painted sign so old and worn that it could scarcely be read. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to read _Brown and Eagle Wool Warehouse._ The crowd were muttering to themselves and looking towards an area across the street, where others were gathered around a gated entranceway marked _Brown's Stableyard._

"Oh my God," Nicole whispered. Several of the throng had moved back, apparently losing interest, and the clear attraction was visible on the ground. Congealed among the puddles from last night's rain was a thick, dark substance, which must have been blood. Only hours before, a body had lain in that exact spot. Her killer had stood there over her.

"All right, move back." A young man in a police uniform was pushing back the people who still gathered to make way for a man with a bucket and mop, who was looking worn and haggard, his eyes hollow and jaw set to deal with the human blood he was about to wash away.

"Emily, I think we should go…" Nicole's voice was urgent as she tried to pull me away. What was she – oh. Oh no.

The young officer looked up at us and immediately slumped his shoulders, muttering something profane before heading across the street towards us.

"What in the hell are you doing here?" Andrew asked in exasperation, adjusting his thick collar and moving so as to block the scene of the murder from our view.

"We were at Piccadilly Circus," Nicole blurted out before I had a chance to open my mouth.

Andrew narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in confusion. "You two need to leave. Now. This is no place for you."

"Andrew, Holmes and John left early this morning while it was still raining. They haven't been back since. Today's issue of the _Pall Mall Gazette_ was all too hastily hidden from my view. I read the article. I know what happened."

"If something is being kept from you, there is probably a just reason for it. Stay out of this. It'll be sorted out in no time."

"Oh, like the murder of Martha Tabram was."

"Emily, you know very well that the perpetrator in that case was very different."

"She was stabbed with a bayonet thirty-nine times, of course it was different. But what isn't is that you said you would catch him."

"It's not that easy. The Yard's in turmoil. You know about Warren…"

"Yes, the rigid commissioner who replaced your father. I know about the disagreement in his office earlier this month."

"Then you know that the ranks have been in chaos. I assure you this case will be solved by next week. Especially with Holmes and Doctor Watson on the killer's trail."

"What trail, Andrew?" I hissed. "You know how it is, the scene has been contaminated in the most extreme sense of the word. People have been gawking ever since the body was first discovered."

"I've been taking some statements from residents of the area."

"And what did they see?"

"Nothing, as of yet. For heaven's sake, Emily, drop it. Neither of you should be here. You'll be lucky if I don't tell Holmes and your brother about this."

"Are they still at the Yard?"

"As far as I know. Come on, I'm finished here. I'm taking you back to Baker Street."

I sighed and took Nicole's arm, giving in and allowing Andrew to usher us to a cab stand.

* * *

"You're not going to catch him. Not so soon."

Our cab ride had been silent until Nicole spoke quietly, her eyes on the buildings going by outside the grubby window.

"How could you know that, Nicole?" Andrew asked, rubbing his face with weary hands.

"It's obviously not on Scotland Yard's priority list. Any evidence would have been stamped out, and who really cares about a prostitute's murder?"

"Who said she was a prostitute?" Andrew asked, stiffening.

"Oh, please," I interrupted. "Her clothes bore the label of Lambeth Workhouse, she was murdered in Buck's Row, and she was out and about at such ungodly hours. Naturally she was a prostitute."

"No one cares about a prostitute's murder," Andrew said grimly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and eyes fixed on his shoes, previously polished but now dusty and scuffed from walking the streets of Whitechapel. "But what they do care about is that this is more than a murder. Martha Tabram's brutal stabbing received an equally sensational amount of attention, however it quickly lost its flavour because of the holiday. Emma Smith, however, barely received a paragraph in her name. But this one…it's the most vicious murder of late. This is only the beginning. There will be more attention than this has already received."

"But a prostitute," Nicole restated. "Vicious murder or no, what makes this one stand out?"

Andrew averted his gaze. "I really can't say. The decision of our priorities is far above my ranking. All I know is that the order was given to Superintendent Arnold of H Division from Scotland Yard. Someone in the vicinity of the Commissioner's office, I'd imagine. I'd have to look at the order Arnold was given to be sure."

"Well can't we – I mean, you – do that?" I broke in.

"Emily, I am not trespassing into my Superintendent's office to sneak a look at classified orders from the highest ranks of the Metropolitan Police. The only reason I was able to secure this position at all is because H Division was understaffed, and I am only employed part time. I can't risk it."

By this time, our cab had turned onto Baker Street, and as we pulled up to 221, I could see none other than my brother, John Watson, standing stiffly outside the door, arms crossed in front of him as if he were a sentinel waiting for the exact moment that we arrived. He appeared grimly satisfied to see Nicole and I inside the cab, but as Andrew emerged first to help us down, John's gaze darkened visibly.

"You did not. You absolutely did not!" he exclaimed as the three of us approached the doorstep and the cab drove off.

"Doctor Watson, I can assure you that they absolutely _did,_ " Andrew reported with a sigh.

"Inside. All of you." John replied tartly, pushing the door open and stalking gruffly inside, leaving us to follow.

Upstairs, Holmes was waiting in the sitting room with Lestrade and another inspector whom I had only seen in passing at Scotland Yard. He was approximately John's height, with a slight limp apparent in the way he was standing, with his weight noticeably off of his left leg. He had dark hair and sideburns, and a moustache the same shade as his hair. All this, however, I observed after the fact, for the first thing I noticed were his eyes. They were dark and brooding, much like Holmes, however they lacked the passion and the sympathy that Holmes possessed underneath. I supposed Holmes must know him well, in order for him to be here, but there was something about his countenance that made me feel ever so subtly uneasy. It wasn't something I could ever hope to explain in more certain terms, I only know that he gave off the sense that his presence was causing a deep instability in the very balance of the universe.

Lestrade cleared his throat, moving abruptly towards the door, the other inspector following him at a slower pace. "Well, Holmes, we'd better be going…paperwork and…all that…"

"Don't leave in such a hurry, Inspector," said Andrew from the doorway. "The girls aren't as ignorant of this matter as we had planned."

I was still adjusting to Andrew's addressing Lestrade by his title rather than his name. Being now an authorized officer of the law, he was obligated to correctly address his superiors in their presence.

"How on earth did you –" Lestrade spluttered.

Holmes elicited a sigh. "Watson!"

"Yes, Holmes?" replied John wearily from behind me.

"I told you it would be wisest to place that newspaper on top of the bookshelf, completely and assuredly out of her sight."

"Well, why don't you do it next time, Holmes?" My brother crossed to the side table by the window to pour himself a glass of brandy. After what he must have seen this morning, I have no doubt that he needed it.

"All the same," said the other inspector, brushing past us into the hallway. "We do need to be on our way. Superintendent Arnold wanted my special insight on this matter."

"Very well," said Holmes crisply, "I'll be in contact with you by tomorrow morning."

"Good day, Holmes," Lestrade said, clapping the detective on the back and tipping his hat to Nicole and I as he briskly strode out the door to join his fellow inspector in the hall.

"Do you know who that other man was?" I asked Andrew quietly, observing their backs as they descended the stairs and disappeared from sight.

"That's Inspector Abberline. He has a job at the Yard now, but until last year he was a veteran officer in Whitechapel. Seeing as he knows the area so well, the Superintendent must have put out a request for his insight on the investigation.

"Doesn't he seem a bit…dark?"

"Emily, everyone seems a bit dark today. It's impossible not to be with a murder like this. He's really not a bad fellow. Very efficient, and one of the most intelligent and lively men I've ever seen in the whole of the Mets."

I opened my mouth to try and explain that he wasn't _solemn_ or _subdued_ or anything of the sort, but I couldn't find the words to properly express the ominous air that had surrounded Inspector Abberline.

As I sank onto the couch, preparing myself for the berating that was sure to follow, Andrew's words from the cab gnawed at the inside of my brain. _This is only the beginning._ But not just of the attention this murder would receive. No. Throat slit, abdomen cut open…this couldn't be a random murder. The killer had nothing against this particular woman. This…mutilation was a calling card. There would be more. Of course there would be more. _This is only the beginning._


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

The murdered woman's name was Mary Ann Nichols. Some called her Polly. Lestrade returned to Baker Street later in the evening to deliver the grim news of the victim's identification.

Andrew and Nicole had both been invited to remain for dinner, and we had just finished our bowls of soup when Lestrade came in so quietly that we might not have realized had it not been for the heavy presence that he carried with him.

"I've just come from the mortuary," he announced, slumping into a chair at the end of the table. "An old acquaintance of hers, one Mary Ann Monk, came and gave an identification."

"Have some soup, Lestrade," said Holmes softly, pushing the tureen and an extra bowl towards him. "You look as if you've scarcely had a bite all day."

"Don't think I could stomach anything most of today," admitted the weary Inspector, ladling his bowl about half full and staring down at it as if it was the choppy ocean and he was standing on the edge of a gangplank. "I confess all I've had are glasses of whisky between taking statements. As if I could manage anything else with that image burned into my mind…"

A sound of glass against wood and sloshing liquid from the other side of the table attracted my gaze. John's eyes were pained and vacant, his hand shaking so that he had nearly spilled brandy from the decanter whilst refilling his glass yet again. I caught Holmes looking over worriedly as well, and I briefly met his eye. We'd both seen him like this before. Sometimes without warning, but most often because of a particularly violent case, my brother would become quiet and withdrawn. His eyes would glass over, appearing as if he were trapped in another time and place, and he would absently rest a hand on the old battle wound in his shoulder. During these periods, he would drink glass after glass of brandy to steel himself against the hardships of his past. He never mentioned the reason for these episodes, simply carrying on the next day and pretending as if they had never occurred, but we knew very well that the war had taken its toll on him. I did not envy him. One war in a lifetime was far more than any person should have to endure, and he survived it only to come back to another. The war on crime was as merciless as that against the Ghazis. No, I did not envy him, but I greatly admired him. He did not have to agree to lodgings with Sherlock Holmes, and he certainly did not have to accompany him in his macabre pursuit of London's criminal pollutants, and yet he did. Taking the burden of such emotional strain was his choice, and he shouldered the load for the greater good of the people affected by the crimes that he assisted in solving.

"Will you be attending the inquest tomorrow?" Inquired Holmes, breaking eye contact with me to turn back to Lestrade, who was taking careful yet noticeably ravenous spoonfuls of his soup.

"Yes," he responded tersely. "I am part of a delegation of officers assigned to attend on behalf of Scotland Yard. I...will look forward to seeing you in the morning." He lowered his voice significantly as he continued. "I daresay it will be the only thing I'll be looking forward to for a good while."

Holmes was opening his mouth to reply when Nicole stood. "Beg pardon the interruption, but I really must be getting home. I'm sure my sister did not anticipate my being gone so long."

"Not alone, you're not," Lestrade warned, dropping his spoon into the bowl with a clatter. "The streets are dangerous enough for a young lady as is, but tonight wandering alone is inexcusable. Mr. Lynch, please escort her to her residence in safety."

"Yes, sir," replied Andrew automatically, clearing his throat and standing, squeezing my hand under the table covertly as he strode to the coat stand to retrieve his official police jacket.

After bidding farewell to Andrew and Nicole, Holmes leaned forward, steepling his fingers with elbows on the table. "As I had been about to say, I am eagerly awaiting the report of the surgeon's post mortem findings. I am quite interested to know if this case yields evidence of sexual assault."

I inhaled sharply, and I can't say whether it was due to Holmes' words or the sudden clunk of John's glass hitting the table with great force.

"Holmes," John hissed, the vacancy temporarily out of his eyes.

"Fear not, Watson, may I say that Emily is clearly not as youthful and innocent as we might assume." Holmes' eyes were on me as he spoke, and his piercing gaze cut through my flesh and bone, freezing me in place as I suddenly became conscious of the incessant itching of the raised lines up and down my arms.

"I assure you that I am not bothered by this matter," I said, even though I very much was. But whether or not it bothered me was of no consequence. I was a highly moral person, of course it bothered me, but being of such high moral fibre meant that I felt an obligation to pursue the crimes of the world, no matter whether or not the insensitivity of them made my skin crawl.

"Even so," John replied, the tension in his vocal chords present in his speech, "you will under no circumstances be attending the inquest tomorrow."

I shrugged, gathering my skirts and standing. "It's no matter. The proceedings will be covered in the Times, I am sure."

Lestrade finished his soup and stood, still looking slightly pale in the face, but altogether less gaunt and starved. "Holmes...Doctor...I very much appreciate the hospitality, but I must be going. I was asked to report for duty early in the morning, prior to the inquest, and I really must obtain as much sleep as I possibly can. Goodnight to all of you."

He fetched his coat and hat with a slight tremor in his hand, and made no eye contact with any of us as he walked briskly out the door.

* * *

The rain had started up again later that night, and I stood in the sitting room watching the darkened streets below, attempting to muster the will to ready myself for bed.

John, having consumed more than enough brandy and muttering something about organizing some of his records, retired early, and Holmes and I were alone.

I had kept to myself for the evening, as Holmes seemed to be fixated on recreating the murder scene using a dress shop mannequin wearing some of Mrs. Hudson's clothes, but my head snapped in surprise when Holmes spoke my name. "Are you serious about this, Emily?"

"Serious...about what?" I asked in confusion, wondering if any questionable words or phrases had slipped out of my mouth whilst my mind was elsewhere.

"About this," he answered with just a hint of impatience, gesturing at the floor, where the mannequin was doing a simply wonderful job portraying the role of Mary Nichols. "About assisting on cases, being involved and...exposed to this side of the world."

"Well, quite naturally," I replied, "or I would never have been so intent on pushing my way into matters."

He paused in his pursuit of kneeling down and examining the dummy from all different angles and looked me straight in the eyes. "I only want to make sure that this is what you want," he said, his voice quiet and eyes serious. "I know that if it is, Watson will respect your decision. The only reason that he is being so strict now is because his instinct is to shield you. We have seen and experienced things far more horrible than you should be able to imagine, and he only wants to protect you in case you should think you want to be involved but should later happen to change your mind. But this is your choice to make, and I only want you to be sure."

My breath caught in my throat, but I let it out smoothly and turned fully around, stepping slightly away from the window before answering. "Yes. I am sure. This is what I want, and although I may not be prepared for everything that goes with this decision, I should very much like to be."

Something like a smile flitted across Holmes' face, and he beckoned to me, the familiar glitter returning to his eyes. "Then come here and look at this."

I followed his instruction and stepped carefully over the mannequin and crouched down on the floor, assuming the same position as him.

"The police surgeon on site, Henry Llewellyn, noted this morning that a wine glass and a half of blood was pooled in the gutter by Ms. Nichols' side," Holmes told me, his voice hushed, almost as if giving the crime scene deities a place to make themselves known.

"Henry Llewellyn?" I asked, eyebrows raised. "Isn't he somewhat of a drunkard?"

Holmes shrugged. "Only when he has the time. But of course, no one else would think to measure blood in wine glasses. I do believe that's the very reason we invented a system of measurements."

I confess that I let out a small giggle, breaking the effort of concentration upon my face. "Really, though," I asked after composing myself, trying to visualise a wine glass in my mind, "that isn't much blood, is it? I mean, her throat was slit ear to ear, and the wound was an inch wide, at least according to the article this morning. So shouldn't there have been a great deal more blood?"

"This is very true," said Holmes, nodding at me with pleasure in his eyes. "But we must take into account that it rained a tremendous amount last night, and there could very well have been more blood, but it was likely washed away. As we know, the greater the amount of blood, the longer before it congeals, especially when broken up and thinned by rainwater."

I nodded, my lips pressed together, trying to picture a wine glass and a half of blood spilling from the victim's neck. "Isn't there also the possibility that she was already dead when her throat was cut?"

Holmes raised a finger and smiled again, his eyes glinting. "Excellent point of contention! However, she was dead when her abdomen was cut open, and there was no blood on the breast or the body. If she had already been dead, there wouldn't have been nearly that much blood loss. So from this we can figure that she was indeed still alive. This is why I am very much looking forward to hearing Llewellyn's post mortem account at the inquest tomorrow. Watson had reached the conclusion that she died of blood loss from her neck wound, but I should very much like to be certain."

"How long would it have taken her to die?" I asked, my voice hushed in dismay at the thought of the poor woman lying on the ground, choking on her own blood as it filled her lungs.

"According to Watson, with her aortic vein being sliced clean through, a minute or less."

I felt my blood chill, an image springing to my mind of the victim sprawled on the ground, fear filling her eyes as she swiftly bled out from the neck, unable to move as her killer violated her in the worst possible ways. At least death came upon her quickly. It could have been far more drawn out and excruciating.

"Are you all right?" I heard Holmes ask, and it took me a moment to realize that I was shaking all over.

"Fine," I answered softly, taking a steadying breath. This was the worst part of being so guided by my emotions. In the midst of trying to understand the situation, I could never be cold or logical like Holmes. Instead I found myself empathizing with the victims, seeing what they must have seen, feeling what they must have felt. It had never served me wrong in the essence of the investigations, but it certainly was emotionally jarring. It seems that the effects of it were convincing Holmes and my brother that I wasn't prepared for involvement.

"I'm ready for this. I really am," I blurted out, looking up at Holmes with what I hoped were sincere eyes. "It's only that I need to settle into this. I will, with time."

There was silence for a long moment as I carefully avoided Holmes' gaze. "I understand," he replied finally. "This life takes quite the adjustment. Not everyone is suited for it."

"I never before thought I would be," I confessed, "but I've realized that no matter the effects it has on me, I'm better off for the good it does for the world."

Holmes suddenly tensed, nodding stiffly, and I sighed, cursing myself for the idea that I could get him to open up about his origins and past. Especially so soon. He had been so closed off for as long as I'd known him, and he was exposing himself to me bit by bit, but it would take time. The question was why. Why would Holmes choose me of all people to show his emotional side to? I was no one special, no one different.

"It's getting late," he said at last. "If you really want this, I will instruct you on some finer arts you will need to know. But for now, you should get some rest. We'll talk after the inquest tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Holmes," I said softly, straightening up and heading towards the door.

"Goodnight Emily," he returned absently, turning back to the mannequin on the floor and studying it intently.

I smiled slightly as I eyed his dedication, closing the door behind me as I walked to my bedroom, trying to close off my mind from thoughts of the murder.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

I had no problems in waking up before the sun the following morning, but when I wrapped my warmest dressing gown around me and retreated to the sitting room, my flatmates' coats were already gone from their hooks.

I swallowed back the lump in my throat at the thought of the solemn proceedings that would soon be occurring. And curse it, I could do nothing but wait. Or could I?

I knew the building where the inquest was being held, the Working Lads Institute on the Whitechapel Road. The inquest would of course be held in the ground floor Meal Hall, and one could often see plainly dressed maids on the first story, sweeping and emptying buckets of soiled water out the window.

It would be easy enough, only to sneak past the officers and public without any acquaintances catching a glimpse of my face.

Closing my eyes and thinking, I knew exactly what I could do. Mrs. Hudson was close enough to my height, was she not?

I ripped a piece of paper from an open notebook on John's desk and scribbled _Gone to market -Emily_ on it before leaving it on the table and lightly hurrying down the stairs to be sure our landlady was occupied. I held my breath momentarily at the bottom of the stairwell and strained my ears. Satisfied once I heard the telltale sounds of scrubbing from the laundry, I silently bolted back up to Mrs. Hudson's room, hastily picking a plain brown dress and an apron from her wardrobe and bustling along to my room to change.

After tying the apron behind me and pinning up my hair, I snuck down the stairs once more and slipped out the door. After closing it behind me, I gasped at what awaited me when I turned around.

" _Why_ are you wearing Mrs. Hudson's clothes?" asked Andrew, arms crossed and eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I'm going to market," I told him, my heart sinking with how weak my alibi was when I was actually seen dressed like a housemaid.

"In Mrs. Hudson's clothes rather than your own? For God's sake Emily, you're wearing an _apron._ It's almost as if you were in disguise."

I sighed and slumped my shoulders. "I suppose you've been instructed not to let me out of sight."

"Your flatmates know very well the sneaky and rebellious nature of your heart."

"And you, whether or not you choose to admit it, share the same instincts, no matter how deep you attempt to bury them."

"Emily, what are you trying to convince me to do?"

"I'm going to the inquest, Andrew."

He elicited a deep sigh and massaged his temple with his fingers. "Emily, _no._ "

"Andrew, I spoke with Holmes last night."

"Oh, and I suppose he gave you permission to be there?"

"Not...exactly."

Andrew scoffed. "Emily, you were given strict instructions to stay away from the inquest. It's not something anyone such as yourself should hear, the sheer and uncensored brutality of the crime."

"Then why is it open to the public?"

" _The public_ is not Holmes and Doctor Watson's responsibility."

"Don't they know it's useless trying to shield me? I've seen dead bodies, Andrew, I've _found_ them. I've walked the filthiest streets in the city, albeit unintentionally, and I've heard killers give the lowest, dirtiest confessions. If I'm going to be permitted into this, it cannot be only partially. I'm in or I'm out, I cannot simply hover somewhere in between."

"I'm not going to have a choice but to come with you, am I?"

"Not if you intend to honor your promise."

"But how exactly do you propose this without either of us being seen?"

"Trust me, Andrew. I have an idea, we'll work out the finer details when we arrive."

Andrew pressed his lips together. "Someday this inability to say no to you is going to get me in serious trouble."

"It won't be today," I assured him, taking his hand in mine as we began to walk away from 221. "I'll make sure of that."

* * *

The buzz in Whitechapel had, if anything, magnified since yesterday. Murder was scandalous, yes, but it was what it was - more than common. In this respect, the district was never short of talk. Yes, murder was one thing, but a murder that yielded an inquest? That was quite another.

With the crowd gathering and trickling into the Working Lads Institute, it was easy enough for us to blend in, walking slightly apart so as not to attract attention. I had absolutely no idea if everyone we knew personally had already arrived, and it was rather like walking into the building with no social map, as it were, not knowing where the human land-mines would be standing, or if they would even be in sight. The trick was to keep an eye out for them without turning your face in their direction.

As we entered, I took a deep, calming breath and kept my head tilted downwards as I walked towards the staircase in back of the foyer that led to the upstairs dormitories and supply closets. _If you don't pay attention to others, they shan't pay attention to you,_ I reminded myself silently, not stopping until I reached the staircase, feeling Andrew's eyes on my back and trusting his ability to nonverbally understand me.

I walked up the first few steps of the staircase and waited silently around the corner of the continuing stairs. I heard Andrew's lead lined police boots climb the first step before a voice shouted, "Lynch!"

"Constable Smith, may I help you?"

"I was only wondering what you were doing here," I heard faintly over the hubbub. "I didn't see you on the list of officers called today."

"I wasn't," replied Andrew, promptly and steadily. "Superintendent Arnold asked me to make sure no one got up to anything inappropriate on the upper floors while that half of the building was unoccupied."

"Ah, very well. Best get to work, then."

After a moment, Andrew's footfalls commenced and soon he came into my sight. "He'd better not check with Arnold about that," he murmured as we ascended to the first story together.

"But he's only a constable too, he has no authority over you," I pointed out.

Andrew chuckled softly to himself. "Maybe not, but Smith is as obedient as they come. He'd never bend a rule, much less break it."

"Well then," I said, drawing out the words slowly, "let's hope his mind is too distracted today to think of it."

"By the way, _what_ exactly am I risking my position for?"

"Just follow me," I assured him, still formulating my plan.

It wasn't hard to find the room right above the dining hall. The sheer noise from downstairs made it up through the floorboards. A vent of some kind lay in the floor, and I peeked through it to be sure. It led straight down into the dining hall. _Perfect._

"All right," I said, turning to Andrew, "We're still quite early, there's a supply closet down the hall."

His eyes narrowed at me in shock and confusion.

I sighed. "Improvising, Andrew! We need to create something to amplify the sound, we won't be able to hear it otherwise."

He nodded a little too quickly and followed me to the storage closet two doors down.

After checking to be sure the coast was clear, I opened the door and slipped inside, Andrew right behind me.

I immediately began frantically searching for anything I could use. _Small tin pails, a length of hose…_ "Light this," I ordered Andrew, stuffing a candle and some matches into his unprepared arms.

He looked completely baffled by my reasoning, but followed my instructions nonetheless, gingerly striking the match and holding it to the candle wick until it ignited. "...Now what do I do?" he asked, looking utterly clueless.

"Wait for some of the wax to melt," I said, picking up two pails which had holes in the bottom, possibly to use as impromptu flower pots.

I threw him the hose. "You have a knife, don't you? Cut this in half."

Again, he obeyed, a small smirk on his face as if he was beginning to realize my plan.

"The wax is melting," he said, glancing down at the candle on the floor after fighting to cut through the thick rubber hose with his pocket-knife.

Okay, now hold this pail and the hose," I instructed, groping around for a wooden stick I'd seen before and dipping it in the wax. I lined the end of the hose and the hole in the pail with liquid wax, and Andrew firmly held it in place until it cooled before we repeated the process on the other side.

"This is the most unorthodox method of eavesdropping I have ever seen," Andrew murmured, shaking his head as he held our impromptu device together while waiting for the wax to set.

I shrugged, cracking open the closet door and peering out to be sure the coast was still clear. "Living with Sherlock Holmes, you do have a tendency to pick up a great deal of resourcefulness and unorthodox instincts. Don't tell me you don't remember the affair at the Duke of Albany's banquet in the spring, when Holmes was forced to suspend himself from the chandelier in order to obtain a confession without being discovered."

"Don't remind me," Andrew replied, groaning as he stood up and his knees audibly cracked. "Lestrade was in hysterics fearing he'd dash his head open on the sideboard or catch himself on fire."

He handed the newly minted apparatus over to me, stepping ahead of me into the doorway and preparing to take the lead, but he winced as the two tin pails clinked against each other. I read the concern in his eyes, and understood its cause. The ventilation shafts were themselves made of and internally lined with metal. A tin pail attached to a length of rubber hose being precariously lowered down was not an ideal medium of silence.

Andrew held up a hand, his sharp gaze willing me to hold the ends of our device stable - or, more likely, begging them not to move of their own accord - as he scuttled to one of the shelves in the back of the room and rifled through the contents until he found some scraps of an old sheet, which he promptly tore into strips and wrapped around the widest edges of the pails. Then, glancing down at the floor, he swiftly blew out our still lit candle before easing the door open and ushering me out.

* * *

The inquest, despite the fact that I knew that the solutions to the most baffling of cases could be found through listening to the endless monologues of witnesses, proved to be far less exciting than I ever could have hoped. Indeed, Andrew's body stretched on the floor next to me splitting the ear-space in our amplifier was the only thing keeping me from fidgeting restlessly during the whole drawn out ordeal.

The first witness, Edward Walker, told that he believed the deceased to be his daughter, that they had not been on good speaking terms for some years on account of her habits being sometimes drunk and disorderly, but that he had no idea she'd resorted to prostitution after separating from her husband. He attested that she had five children, the oldest of whom was 21 and the youngest being eight or nine. Despite her sins, she was too good to have any enemies.

Police Constable John Neil, officer 97J, stated that the previous morning he had been walking down Buck's Row towards Brady Street, and not a soul was in sight. The same could be said for his rounds half an hour before. He found the deceased under a street lamp outside the gateway to the stable yards. As he knelt to examine her, he called for another constable whom he heard passing by, telling him to fetch Dr. Llewellyn at once. The arms were still quite warm above the elbows at this point in time.

The police surgeon, Henry Llewellyn himself, was next called, and thus being the official medical statement, I shall copy it here as it was reproduced in the _Daily Telegraph_ the next day:

"On Friday morning I was called to Buck's Row about four o'clock. The constable told me what I was wanted for. On reaching Buck's Row I found the deceased woman lying flat on her back in the pathway, her legs extended. I found she was dead, and that she had severe injuries to her throat. Her hands and wrists were cold, but the body and lower extremities were warm. I examined her chest and felt the heart. It was dark at the time. I believe she had not been dead more than half an hour. I am quite certain that the injuries to her neck were not self-inflicted. There was very little blood round the neck. There were no marks of any struggle or of blood, as if the body had been dragged. I told the police to take her to the mortuary, and I would make another examination. About an hour later I was sent for by the Inspector to see the injuries he had discovered on the body. I went, and saw that the abdomen was cut very extensively. I have this morning made a post-mortem examination of the body. I found it to be that of a female about forty or forty-five years. Five of the teeth are missing, and there is a slight laceration of the tongue. On the right side of the face there is a bruise running along the lower part of the jaw. It might have been caused by a blow with the fist or pressure by the thumb. On the left side of the face there was a circular bruise, which also might have been done by the pressure of the fingers. On the left side of the neck, about an inch below the jaw, there was an incision about four inches long and running from a point immediately below the ear. An inch below on the same side, and commencing about an inch in front of it, was a circular incision terminating at a point about three inches below the right jaw. This incision completely severs all the tissues down to the vertebrae. The large vessels of the neck on both sides were severed. The incision is about eight inches long. These cuts must have been caused with a long-bladed knife, moderately sharp, and used with great violence. No blood at all was found on the breast either of the body or clothes. There were no injuries about the body till just about the lower part of the abdomen. Two or three inches from the left side was a wound running in a jagged manner. It was a very deep wound, and the tissues were cut through. There were several incisions running across the abdomen. On the right side there were also three or four similar cuts running downwards. All these had been caused by a knife, which had been used violently and been used downwards. The wounds were from left to right, and might have been done by a left-handed person. All the injuries had been done by the same instrument."

Following this statement, which, I do confess, knocked the breath out of me as I listened, Holmes and my brother were called, the former relating that he could find no useful or uncontaminated evidence at the scene, and the latter seconding what Llewellyn had concluded. The Coroner thanked everyone for attending, and adjourned the inquest until the next day. I was about to raise up the device and suggest that we depart when I heard The Coroner, Wynne E. Baxter, ask my companions and the Inspectors attending on behalf of Scotland Yard to remain for a private word with him.

I leaned in closer to the open vent, pressing the pail as close to our ears as I could, making sure that I did not miss a single word of the conversation about to occur.

"Emily, this isn't as important as you think it is," Andrew whispered directly into my ear, his lips so close I could feel them brushing against my skin. I willed my heart to slow, this wasn't the time. "I've overheard these conversations before, between the Coroner and the higher police representatives. It's all politics and strategy and planning to meet at the pub later."

I shifted ever so slightly to whisper back, making sure my lips were every bit as close to his ear. "Maybe, but usually Holmes and my brother aren't needed for those things. It's obviously to do with the case."

He must have known he couldn't argue, for he stayed silent, conceding my point with the fewest words possible, as was his trademark.

"...Mr. Holmes, are you certain there was no evidence?" Baxter was saying, after the public had filed out of the room. "I am very familiar with your work, and we've taken your word at inquests before, you've greatly improved our reputation. You always find something. Isn't it one of your principles that everyone leaves something behind, no matter how hard they may attempt to avoid it?"

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Baxter, but most of the cases with which I provide the solution for Scotland Yard do not take place in a dingy side street in London's filthiest district," Holmes returned, a slight edge audible in his voice. "Anything which could have been of any use is contaminated to the point of no return. That being said, whomever is responsible for this deed was very careful. As you are no doubt aware, the severe mutilation of the body looked far messier than it was. Isn't that right, Watson?"

"Indeed. The human body may be messy and crowded, but it is the most complex automaton on the face of the planet. Beneath the chaos and mess of the incisions and blood, it can be plainly seen by anyone trained in anatomy that the cuts were clean and decisive. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing."

"A doctor, then? Or a medical student?" asked a fourth voice, one that I immediately recognized as that of Inspector Abberline, the one who had been at Baker Street before. It was deep, but not in a pronounced manner. Gravelly, but perfectly smooth at the same time.

"Not necessarily, Inspector," John replied. "It does not take medical school experience to gain knowledge of the human body and its functions. One can pick up a copy of _Grey's Anatomy_ almost anywhere these days, and you will find that an informative enough course covering the subject is taught at most upper class boarding schools."

"You're saying he has breeding, then?" Baxter cut in sharply.

"All indications from the murder itself would seem to support this conclusion," Holmes confirmed, giving what I can only assume was one of his short, tight-lipped nods.

"Preposterous, you can't propose to the press and public that a supposed aristocrat or member of the _bourgeoisie_ is responsible for this, the East End is angry enough about matters."

"Mr. Baxter, you can't be suggesting that we lie to the entire populace simply to maintain maximum peace," protested Lestrade. "If we say it's a labourer or a fish monger, the mobs will seek to impale every one of them they see passing through Whitechapel."

"And if we say it's a toff they'll invade our respectable districts and do the same to reputable menfolk there," Baxter snapped. "It's not a suggestion. We have no room to negotiate on this matter, and you all know it. We will all attest to the commissioner and anyone else who may ask that it was a working class native of the area."

"If word gets out that it wasn't, we'll all be under scrutiny," Lestrade refuted.

"Then I suggest that you keep your mouths shut. You are dismissed."

It was clear that Baxter had laid down the final word, and Andrew and I began to carefully pull up the hose through the floor.

Only when it was safely up and the vent closed did we look at each other in stunned silence as we mutually understood what had just happened.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was dusting around the staircase when Andrew and I arrived back at Baker Street.

Our arms linked, we walked through the door, Andrew patiently listening to me rant about injustices and conflicts of interest and the contemptible government having no respect for the people.

I received a sharp but gentle elbow in the side as Andrew looked up and saw the landlady. "I do thoroughly appreciate your stopping by to chat," he said, turning to face me and clasping both my hands in his. "But I really must be heading back. I'll see you tomorrow, I trust? I'll meet you where we agreed." He gave me a piercing look that betrayed that he meant we would meet at the institute again the following morning to resume our auditory surveillance of the inquest.

Then, without any warning whatsoever, he did something I had only dreamed of but never expected.

He leaned in. And he kissed me. It wasn't a long, sensuous kiss, only a peck on the lips that lasted a second or two, but it felt like an eternity. A magical, electrifying eternity that was over far too soon.

By the time I processed it, by the time it was over, Andrew was bowing to Mrs. Hudson and I and slipping out the door with all the grace of a light breeze.

My entire body was abuzz and tingling with the surprise of it, and I was caught up in a whirlwind of doubts of what was reality, until Mrs. Hudson brought me back to the present with a swift exhale and her soft, motherly words of advice.

"Don't let that one go, my dear." And then, "Are you wearing my clothes?"

"Yes," I heard myself say faintly, still half turned towards the door, frozen in place as one about to thaw with the first rays of spring sunshine. "I was worried that I would dirty mine."

I heard her gather up her duster and rags as she came up and laid a hand on my shoulder. "It really isn't often a worthy young girl finds a love like that on her first try. I mean it, don't let him go." She shuffled away down the hall towards the closet.

"I won't," I promised, a good thirty seconds too late.

* * *

Despite the romantic events that made my heart a fountain threatening to overflow, I could scarcely make eye contact with my flatmates when they returned home close to dinner time.

"Emily, I have discussed with Watson what you said to me last night," Holmes said suddenly, setting down his fork as we finished dinner.

I sat up straight with a jolt, looking at Holmes, then to my brother, then back. There was really only one matter I had confessed to Holmes last night.

John was eerily silent, even following the mention of his name. I slowly turned my head in his direction, Holmes' gaze following mine. His expression was once again vacant as he held his glass of brandy in an iron tight, white-knuckled vise.

"Watson?" Holmes prompted authoritatively, unable to keep a hint of concern out of his voice.

My brother started, seeming to be brought forth from the realms of his mind by his partner's voice. "Oh, yes," he said, furrowing his brow in confusion as he struggled to recall what exactly Holmes had said.

"Our discussion? About Emily?" Holmes prodded again, the worry for his friend bleeding into his steely eyes.

"Of course," John replied, his expression relaxing as he turned to me. "Given that I myself am from the family, I should never have assumed you would be any wiser. Watsons are never ones to leave matters alone. And I really must come to terms with the fact that you are not a child. Most well-to-do daughters are being married off at your age. It's senseless to think that I can shield the sister I never knew I had, especially with all you've been forcibly exposed to." He drew out the sentences, choosing his words carefully and clearly wishing himself into a world where circumstances more easily allowed him to take back his admittance.

Finally, the both of them were seeing some sense. It wasn't as though there was much that could shock and disturb me anymore. _Except for this murder._ But that was singular, everyone was attesting to the fact. I was sure I'd be over it soon enough.

"I thank you both for discussing this and each coming to this conclusion. For the past year that I have been here, I have wanted nothing more than to be able to explain to you what I want. I have been wronged. I have seen the injustice in the world and, young or female or whatever else, I am no different than you in that I want to correct it."

"You have, of course, shown excellent determination and resourcefulness," Holmes said, nodding, "taking matters into your own hands when you had no other choice. On separate occasions you have done so rashly, but that is only for lack of experience. We'll soon remedy that."

I looked around the table at my companions, trying to keep my dreams and feet on the ground as it sunk in what was happening. "So, no more staying confined to the rooms with Mrs. Hudson while you're off solving crime throughout Britain?" I hardly dared to believe it.

"Not as long as you don't continue to recklessly endanger yourself," John warned, wagging a finger sternly in my direction.

"But you can't have true justice without reckless endangerment, right?" I blurted. "That's why our government and law enforcement are so corrupt."

John opened his mouth as if to argue, but simply gaped and blinked, unable to come up with a contradiction. Holmes, seeing my brother's defeated expression and the smirk on my face, broke out into a loud laugh - one which I had not heard in months.

"Outwitted again, my good man," he chuckled, clapping John on the shoulder. The wrong one, evidently, for I saw him wince.

"Now that I'm fully initiated, if I may say so, where do we start? Might I be informed as to what happened at the inquest today?"

I, of course, already knew, but they didn't know that, and this was no time to tell them. There was also the matter of Baxter's questionable hush-up job, to which I wanted to gauge their reactions.

So John went to his desk and fetched a notebook, with which he must have been keeping track of the inquest, and read out loud the events. I could tell very well that he was fighting his instincts to stop reading every step of the way, but his expression did not change and his voice did not waver.

"Do we know anything else about the killer?" I asked instantly after John flipped the journal closed. "Other than that he was likely left-handed?"

"Left-handed. As if," snorted Holmes, shaking his head in disgust.

"Holmes, don't start, I already had to silence you from making an objection during Llewellyn's statement today."

I held up a hand against my brother, leaning forward in my chair with interest. "No, I'd like to know. Why do you presume this to be wrong?"

"I don't _presume,_ I _know,_ " Holmes clarified, pushing back his chair and striding over in front of the mantel. "Watson, come play my victim for a moment."

My brother uttered a long suffering sigh before throwing down his napkin and complying.

His shoulders slumped, he stood directly in front of Holmes, his expression blank, as though he'd already been coerced into doing this several times.

"Llewellyn's _post mortem_ indicated that the wounds were inflicted from left to right, and I concur. That much is obvious, even more so with a closer examination of the damaged tissue."

"The direction in which the blade pulled," I chimed in. "Of course, it's simple physics."

"Absolutely correct. Now the murderer could not have stood face to face with his victim during the incident without soiling himself to the extreme. Observe. _Watson, turn,_ " he hissed.

Now face to face with his demonstration, he took a hand and mimed cutting the throat. My brother stood still.

"Watson, what a terrible victim you are, at least _try._ "

"Holmes, I am not falling on the floor again today!"

"Very well, now you know from the report that both the jugular veins and carotid arteries were completely severed. As the doctor will confirm, blood would have spattered everywhere - most of all on the perpetrator himself. Given the other mutilations in this case, we know that the killer isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. But given that he took the enormous risk of committing this crime in the street, it would have been too much for him to walk away soaked head to toe in his victim's blood. Thus it is clear that he stood behind her when he slit her throat. Are you following?"

"Certainly," I replied, nodding vigorously. "Go on."

John turned again, his back to Holmes once again, looking as though he could not wait until this was over.

"Now to the improbability of the man in question being left-handed - or the opposite thereof. If I am slitting Watson's throat, so deeply, assuredly, and violently, this would happen."

He made the same motion across my brother's throat, but his left hand was bent at an alarming angle to allow it, and I saw immediately how this proposition was doubtful at best.

"As you see, it is preposterous for such a vicious wound to have been inflicted at such an angle, even if it was indeed the culprit's dominant hand. Thus we know that it must have occurred as follows."

With his right hand now, he deftly swiped from left to right, and it all made perfect sense.

"Why have they not listened to your logic then?" I asked as John gratefully scurried back to his seat.

Holmes scoffed. "Naturally because Lestrade was the only reason I was privileged enough to examine the scene. The general opinion is that my name carries far more weight than it actually does. Llewellyn rather despises me ever since I had the presence of mind to point out a few months ago that he truly should stop drinking the preservatives that line his mortuary shelves. And the constables, especially in H division? They are of the opinion that I am a glorified intellectual and aristocrat."

"Well do we know anything _else_? Other than that the murderer was very much _right-handed_?" I prodded, sensing the growing heat in Holmes' temper.

"We know how incredibly low class he is," muttered John, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice that I'd never heard before.

Holmes snorted. "Yes, of course! How _dare_ I leave out that detail."

"Excuse me?" I inquired, raising an eyebrow and feigning ignorance.

"Coroner Baxter is inanely convinced that our society would crumble if it was widely known that the only logical conclusion is that our killer has a great deal of breeding."

"Holmes, you know it's not inane!" my brother protested. "The anarchy of a lower class district against the middle and upper classes because of a crime like this is plausible, and even more so, likely. It's a legitimate risk."

"But not one that's worth replacing the truth with fraudulent information and feeding it to the press and public. It's upper class corruption at its finest!"

"So Baxter doesn't think the public should be informed of even the vaguest description of the killer because it might cause riots and clashing between classes?" I asked, wonder and disgust creeping into my voice with ease.

"He'd rather sacrifice whatever parts of London's worst that he must in order to save the more _worthy_ from harm."

"Corruption's an old song," I said softly, rising from the table and pacing the length of the room, stopping in front of the window. "From the streets of ancient Rome to our own industrial London, so much has changed, and yet so little. The atmosphere is different, but the people...the people are the same, I fear."


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

The previous night's events had still not prodded Holmes and my brother to the point of inviting me to the reconvention of the inquest. So it was that when I woke up, stiff and sore from a night of fitful sleep, they were gone from the flat again without any evidence of having had breakfast.

Not wanting to don Mrs. Hudson's clothes again, I rifled through my wardrobe impatiently, finally deciding upon the simplest dress I owned.

 _I shall be spending some of the day at Hyde Park. -E_ read today's note that I scribbled and left on top of the Pall Mall Gazette. I took one last glance around the room to be sure nothing was out of place before I hurried down the stairs, knowing how smoothly everything would need to go in order for me to meet Andrew on time. Wait, was I meeting him? Where was it? Yesterday's cryptic exchange preceding our kiss had been anything but specific.

Despite all my distress and confusion, a voice in my head came through speaking calmly, and I knew without a doubt that I would find him waiting faithfully on the stairs of the institute.

"Where are you off to for the second day in a row?" Mrs. Hudson asked sharply from behind me, and I started, drawing my hand back from the doorknob.

"Hyde Park," I replied as smoothly as I could. "I thought it best that I keep myself occupied and distracted, and the flat has felt a bit too stuffy of late."

"Well, be careful, my dear, don't cause any of us worry."

"Of course not," I said warmly, nodding to her with a smile before slipping out the door.

Oh, what a blessing that Mrs. Hudson didn't ask many questions. Having Sherlock Holmes as her primary boarder had most definitely made her far more willing to accept quick excuses without a second thought.

I swiftly made my way to the Baker Street cab stand, and waved to a rather neatly dressed driver tending to one of his horses. "I'd like a ride to the Working Lads Institute in Whitechapel," I requested, somewhat out of breath.

He patted his horse on the nose and turned to look at me with a smirk. "Going to the inquest, are you? I was about to drive over there myself. Hop in, and don't worry about money." He leaned in closer to me, and I could easily make out a three o'clock shadow on his face, the stubble wiry. "I'll keep mum if you do."

I smiled, heart in my throat, and shook his hand. "It's a deal."

The cabbie chuckled to himself and opened the door for me, jumping up to his seat and setting off almost before I'd smoothed my skirts to sit down.

The ride was quite unsettling at first, especially since I scarcely had a chance to get situated. I braced myself against the side of the cab as we jolted over what I could tell was the patch of ripped up stones up the street.

After a moment, the movements evened out, and I felt steady enough to take a small notepad from my pocket. Unable to sleep soundly, I had spent much of the night copying information from every resource I had uncovered. The article from the morning of the murder, what Holmes had told me that night, the previous day's inquest, and our _post-prandium_ discussion. The general idea was that a prostitute had been murdered and mutilated by a right-handed man who had slit her throat from behind her. He had not been sloppy, and had known his way around the body, but he was not necessarily a medical professional or student. He had been in and out of the scene within minutes, and had blended into the scene enough to not be noticed. He was more than comfortable with the area, but given his education, he likely did not live there. It was quite obvious that he was marginally well-to-do, although Coroner Baxter, and likely other authorities, didn't want the working class to be aware of the fact. But why? I knew there was a great degree of animosity between the classes, but could the city's own law enforcers come to such a backwards decision in good conscience?

I sighed deeply, flipping the little book closed after thumbing through the pages. Considering the unthinkable truth, I turned my head to gaze out the window at the people on the streets. Holding newspapers, whispering excitedly to each other - much like they had in the few days succeeding Martha Tabram's murder. Nonetheless, something was in the air. Sensation abounded. This wasn't a crime of passion, like three dozen stab wounds and a woman left for dead in an alley. This was...personal. Who in a sudden fit of sexual, drunken rage, would take the time to mutilate an already deceased woman in such a manner? It was of course possible that it was a ritual act of symbolism, some pathological hatred of the feminine sex. But while I knew that was the wobbly conclusion that would be reached in the absence of any other, it simply didn't withstand scrutiny. Under broader circumstances, such a thing might occur, but who would think through a structurally pitiful murder with this much care? It wasn't about her being a woman, or even a prostitute. Something larger must be at play.

We were drawing nearer to Whitechapel, I could tell by the continually shabby architecture that only worsened as we rode on. Staring out the window, I was snapped into the present by a face in the street. Haggard, with sunken eyes and a great deal of stubble. But the eyes...so distinctive, so full of malice. They were unmistakeable. But I couldn't be sure. The sight was gone as quickly as it came. I took a cleansing breath as images flooded my brain, the letters _S.M._ carved into a pocket-knife sticking out of a tree. The knife, of course, I still had, tucked away in my dresser at Baker Street, for intents and purposes I was either unsure of or trying to deny. Protection, that's why I had it. Besides, what on earth _else_ was I supposed to do with it? _Don't make excuses,_ a little voice in my head admonished me, _you know exactly why you kept it._

A lump threatened to form in my throat, and I swallowed it, clenching fistfuls of my skirts and breathing long and deep until the cab came to a stop.

* * *

My encounter with the driver, may he be eternally blessed, had proved to deliver me moments early, giving me no reason to rush suspiciously into the building. Instead, I took my time, filtering in with the others who were strolling around spreading gossip. Close enough so as not to stick out from them, but not close enough as to be clearly attempting to blend into their shadows.

Surreptitiously, I glanced around until no one was looking before lowering my head and beginning to ascend the stairs.

Before I could look up to see who was there, lips were on mine. "Andrew!" I giggled, swallowing a surprised squeak.

"And a good morning to you too," he breathed into my ear, taking my hand and leading me up the remainder of the steps. His breath - and more importantly, his lips - carried hints of cinnamon and a deeper musk that wasn't completely masculine, but at the same time nothing less.

Softly, we crept into the closet which had housed our inventive session the day before, and where we had stored the listening device before taking our leave.

The roughly constructed instrument in hand, we swiftly made our way to our previous nesting perch. Andrew withdrew a small penknife from inside his jacket, and used the blunt edge of the blade to unscrew the metal vent and remove it gently, setting it to the side. He guided my hands, holding them steady, as we lowered the apparatus through the ventilation and lay stretched out on the floor, heads touching, as we listened and waited for the inquest to come to order.

* * *

Inspector John Spratling, of the Bethnal Green division, was called as the first witness. He heard of the murder at about half past four on the morning of 31st August, and proceeded to the scene. He had seen the victim to the mortuary, but had not given the attendants permission to strip the body, as he later found that they had done. Coroner Baxter, whose voice now made me feel slightly ill, inquired about the state of the clothes. Inspector Abberline's request to speak was acknowledged, and upon his suggestion the clothes were sent for. Spratling continued, saying that about six o'clock he had returned to Buck's Row and made a further examination in daylight, and had found no traces of blood where the body had lain. He then inquired with half a dozen residents of the street, and none of them reported anything suspicious.

Henry Tompkins, a horse slaughter residing in Coventry Street, testified that he was working at a slaughterhouse on Winthrop Street until close to four thirty that morning. His fellow slaughterers had heard news of a dead woman in Buck's Row and they all went to try and see her after they were done.

Inspector Joseph Helson had received word of the murder later on in the morning and later gone to view it at the mortuary.

Police Constable Mizen was approached by a carman and his companion at a quarter 'til four and told that a fellow constable had requested his assistance in Buck's Row.

Charles Cross, presumably the aforementioned carman, discovered the body at about half past three. He encountered another man whom he called Robert Paul, along the road, and they drew closer to it and took her hands, where were cold, but said that her face was still warm. They assumed that she had passed out drunk. They heard a policeman coming, but denied having actually seen Constable John Neil in Buck's Row. They left before anyone else arrived. He and Paul walked until the found a constable, and told him that a woman was either dead or drunk in Buck's Row. If his word were golden, then this constable was the first person alerted of the body. Paul walked off, saying he would find other policemen. The juryman asked Cross if he had told Constable Mizen that another constable wanted him in Buck's Row. Cross replied no, because he had not seen a policeman in Buck's Row.

My brow furrowed. Something in these statements didn't add up.

Andrew must have felt me tense up in thought, for he whispered, "We can discuss this soon. It must be almost over."

Sure enough, he was right. Three more witnesses were called for very brief depositions, William Nichols, estranged husband of the deceased, and two acquaintances of hers, Emily Holland and Mary Ann Monk. I could scarcely concentrate on their words, however, for every gear in my brain was grinding, trying to deduce what had really happened that night.

* * *

"Did you breathe at all after Constable Mizen's testimony?" Andrew asked incredulously, replacing the vent after all had ended without incident.

"Andrew, either one of them is lying or something really isn't adding up."

"I know, Emily, I noticed too."

"Constable Mizen said he was approached by a carman and one other, right? That would logically have to be Cross and the other man. The times are even consistent. But Cross says he only said there was a woman lying in Buck's Row, which is incredibly inconsistent with Mizen's testimony. Cross denied having seen Constable Neil, who walked that street between the time he left and Mizen arrived, and this _Robert Paul_ is strangely nowhere to be found. They're very thorough, cross-examining everyone who was there and everyone they said they were with, but Cross's acquaintance is decidedly absent?"

"You don't think Cross and Paul were the same men Mizen saw."

"Oh, that's not what she thinks at all," came a wry, amused voice from the doorway.

Andrew and I both started and swiveled to see Holmes leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

He smirked at us, nodding. "Go on, Emily. Tell him what you think."

I swallowed. "I think the only reasonable thing: that Cross's testimony is a complete fabrication."


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

"But there's no conceivable reason Cross would have lied," Andrew protested.

"Unless he's the killer," Holmes pointed out evenly.

"He's not, though," I said, shaking my head and meeting Holmes' eyes. "We ascertained the killer was brought up more privileged than that. Cross is employed as a _carman_ and likely barely makes enough to keep himself marginally well dressed."

"And as you would have noticed if you had seen with your eyes as well as your ears, Cross is left handed."

"All else aside," Andrew said, rising to his feet, "if he's not the killer, why would he have reason to lie?"

Holmes' eyes glinted with determination, and he beckoned us. "I suppose we're going to have to ask him ourselves. Come along, the game is afoot. Oh, and Emily, you really aren't getting the full experience this way. You could have simply asked to come along."

Andrew's eyebrows raised frightfully close to his hairline as we hurried after Holmes, and I returned the look. _Right. Actually_ asking. _I should have thought of that._

* * *

In the standard inquest, witnesses were called individually from outside the room, and escorted out when finished so as to avoid confusion and contamination of individual's stories. Thus, Charles Cross had already departed from the institute and gone on his way, plagued only by either the memories of what he had seen, or the lies that he had calmly stated to be recorded as the solemn truth.

Holmes informed us without the slightest change in carriage or tone as we met John at the foot of the stairs that Cross lived at number 22 Doveton Street in Bethnal Green, and was employed as a cart driver at Pickford's Depot in Broad Street. He was to receive the rest of the day off as a result of interruption by the inquest.

My brother gave us a tight-lipped glare as we weaved through the dispersing crowd and hailed a cab. Although he had conceded that I should not be kept in the dark, he was never supportive of eavesdropping and unconventional methods of listening.

"What if there's a chance we aren't correct?" Andrew asked, exhaling with gravity as he helped me up into the cab.

"You mean what if Constable Mizen was the one lying?" John asked, breaking his silence and looking to Andrew with question in his eyes.

"You make an interesting point, Andrew," I said, nodding along. "He does appear more educated, and he knows the area well enough to disappear quickly."

"These are valid observations, but it simply isn't possible," Holmes said softly, turning away from the window and meeting our gazes with unsurpassed wisdom. "You have paid attention to what was said, which is admirable, but you have not absorbed _what was said._ "

I pursed my lips in confusion, Andrew knitted his brow together, and John let out an exasperated sigh. "Holmes, speak clearly, please."

"Emily, what did Constable Mizen say?" asked Holmes, shifting his cunning gaze to me.

I thought back, the words still fresh in my mind. "That he was approached by a carman and one other, who said that another policeman wanted him in Buck's Row because a body had been found."

"And Watson, what did Charles Cross say?"

"That he was on his way to work and saw a woman lying on the ground," John answered promptly, flipping open his notebook. "He saw another man in the street, whom he called over to look at the body. They noticed no injury. The witness...had never met the other man before in his life."

"Precisely. So how came he to be identified as Robert Paul, especially if he was not persuaded to come forward today for cross examination?"

"It's not just that," I mused, chewing on my lip. "Why would Mizen say that they said another policeman wanted him if another policeman was not even present when they left Buck's Row?"

"Constable Neil arrived directly afterwards," Andrew said evenly, "so perhaps since they heard him coming they presumed he would sort it out and require assistance?"

I shook my head. "But Andrew, Cross denied having said that to Mizen. If Cross and this 'Paul' were indeed the men who approached Mizen, how could he have not said that?"

John shook his head, a sideways frown on his face. "This must be a simple matter of misunderstanding, why must we dwell on it?"

"Watson, one does not solve a murder without turning over every stone," Holmes admonished as the cab came to a stop. "Let us see what Charles Cross has to say about this situation."

One by one, we descended from the cab and knocked on the roughly sawed door.

"Mr. Cross!" Shouted Holmes with authority. "We are aware that you're here. Answer the door!"

I dared not ask Holmes how he knew Cross was already at home, especially when there came a sudden noise from within, one such as the shattering of glass.

Holmes cursed softly and rattled the doorknob, but it wouldn't budge. He ushered us back a few steps as he ran full force into the door, hoping to break it open. "Watson, help me!"

My brother quickly joined Holmes, and together it only took them two shoves to force open the door, infirm but thick.

The house consisted of two rooms, a bedroom and a small kitchen, and was in utter disarray. A stack of dishes from a small table in the middle of the bedroom were thrown about and lay smashed into pieces on the floor. The window which led into the back alley was shattered, and a man I could only assume to be Charles Cross lay on the floor, gasping, with a circle of blood beginning to grow around him. His hands, rapidly growing sticky, clutched at the left side of his abdomen, where he had clearly been stabbed.

Holmes and Andrew, sharing an urgent glance, turned and ran out the door, looking to cut off the path of whomever had escaped out the window.

John immediately lept forward to kneel at Cross's side and assess his condition. He gently removed Cross's hands from his side in order to examine the wound. From the look on his face and the amount of blood that was quickly accumulating, I could tell it was severely deep. He quickly clamped his own hands over the wound, muttering frantic assurances to Cross, and I couldn't help but to ardently respect his willingness to soak his own hands in blood without a second thought. "Emily, find me something to hold pressure on this - a shirt or anything. Quickly!"

I nodded and assessed the room, crossing to a small wardrobe and ripping out the first article of clothing I saw, a brown work shirt with several patches. Barely glancing at it, I knelt down and handed it to John, who took it and pressed down firmly on top of the source of blood, his own hands already saturated.

Cross's brow was beaded with sweat, his eyes unfocused as his face twisted in agony. I looked to John in concern, and he met my gaze and nodded, having observed the same thing, most likely without having to look a second time. "I can't take the pressure off of the wound," he said to me grimly. "Check his pulse for me. Right side of the neck in the crook of his chin."

Without question, I moved behind his head and did as instructed.

"Rapid and thready?" he asked, his hands steady and eyes becoming more steeled as Cross's breathing grew shallow and he began to fade in and out of consciousness.

I nodded. "That's to be expected, I presume?"

"It's a deep wound and there's a lot of blood," he said with a nod, his face dark and eyes filled with the fear he couldn't repress.

At that moment, Holmes and Andrew appeared in the doorway, faces red and out of breath. Holmes was clutching a double peaked cap in his left hand. "He fled too quickly. All we have is this hat he dropped. Will he survive, Watson?"

"As I was just telling Emily, he's losing a lot of blood, but the wound was only inflicted a moment before our arrival. It's fortunate that we got here when we did or it may have been too late. There's a dispensary just a block over, we should be able to take him if we can get a cart or another cab."

Holmes nodded, lips tight and face empty, and strode out the door, whistling sharply at someone across the street. "Sir! Half a sovereign if you'll drive us to the nearest dispensary. Quickly! Bring the cart round!"

Andrew carefully raised Cross's limp head and shoulders so John could keep pressure on the wound as the unconscious man's arm was draped around his shoulder. Again with Andrew's help, he was lifted into the cart, Holmes and I following behind, as the driver took off down the road with speed as great as we could hope for.

* * *

The doors at the end of the corridor burst open with such force that they hit the walls. "Holmes!" shouted a voice with just as much authority and irritation as the preceding gesture.

Holmes, Andrew, and I looked up with a start to see Lestrade striding down the hall with fire in his eyes, his overcoat open and billowing imperiously behind him.

"Inspector," replied Holmes coolly, rising and clasping his hands behind him.

"What in _blazes_ do you think you're doing?"

"Lestrade!" Holmes admonished sarcastically. "There are _children._ "

Lestrade verily snarled, letting out an expletive that made it clear exactly how he felt. "You can't go around interrogating witnesses like this!"

"It's not as if we got a chance!" Holmes spat back. "We got in and found him severely wounded! If we hadn't been there he wouldn't _be_ a witness anymore."

Lestrade turned his back for a moment, massaging his temple and letting out a short burst of hysterical laughter. "That isn't the point here! You know I'm all in favor of saving people, but I'm not heading up this investigation, and this isn't even your case!"

"You called me in, Lestrade!"

"I convinced Superintendent Arnold to let you come because I told him you could help us wrap it up quickly before things got out of hand, not so that you could waltz in and take the lead like you so often do. I have no problem with this, Holmes, but the higher-ups won't be fond of this and we could both lose our reputations."

Holmes closed his mouth and inhaled deeply through his nose. "Lestrade, you surely must be aware that something was off about what he said. We were going to try and clear things up and finish this case, and _someone tried to kill him._ " He pointed down the dingy hallway to the closed door behind which my brother was helping another doctor stabilize Cross. "Someone tried to kill this man, Lestrade, surely that means _something_ to this case."

"I'm sure it does, Holmes, but I am not in charge of this case."

"And who is, pray tell?"

"I am," came another voice, more gruff, from the end of the hall as the doors swung open again. Its owner was a few inches shorter than Holmes, a slightly portly yet fit man with dark hair and eyes reminiscent of my brother's. His mustache was neatly trimmed and his nose sharp and overhanging. The overall image could be reimagined as an older Holmes with facial hair, for the eyes, bright with intelligence and wit, were the most striking part of his appearance.

Andrew lept to his feet in recognition, back perfectly straight. "Good afternoon, sir."

"Lynch," replied the man with a nod, holding his hand out to Holmes. "Chief Inspector Swanson, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Anderson appointed me head of the investigation on Saturday last."

"Inspector," Holmes addressed him, swallowing, "with all due respect to your position I hope you can forgive my actions."

"I have read of your exploits, Mr. Holmes," replied Swanson grimly, "and I read your...biographer's rendition of that Lauriston Gardens business. I have great respect for your methods. However Superintendent Arnold relented to your appearance at the crime scene simply in hopes that you could find evidence our officers could not. You were to help us track the killer, nothing more unless you were directly asked. Have you been directly asked?"

"No, sir," Holmes replied. "But, you must understand -"

"Oh, I understand very well. The issue here is not your eagerness to help, as I am sure Lestrade has told you. It's that we have not asked you for further consultation as of yet, and this is not a case brought to you by a desperate client. You are currently _consulting_ , nothing more."

Holmes nodded, knowing very clearly that he would be punished for further argument.

Breaking the palpable tension, the doors on the opposite end of the corridor opened softly and John stepped out, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows and hands newly rinsed of blood.

"Doctor Watson, I presume," said Swanson, stepping forward to shake my brother's hand. "How is Mr. Cross?"

"Unconscious, but he should live," John reported, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "We've treated the wound against infection and bandaged it. He lost a lot of blood but Doctor Young and I have concluded that his recovery should be relatively quick. The most pressing issue now is the matter of who tried to kill him."

Swanson turned to Holmes, all grievances momentarily forgotten. "Have you any leads?"

Holmes held out the hat, which he'd held in his hands, considering deeply, ever since we'd arrived at the dispensary. "Directly before our arrival, the attacker smashed through Mr. Cross's back window and escaped through the alley. Constable Lynch and I gave chase, but all he left behind was this hat. If I may?"

"By all means, Mr. Holmes, employ your methods," Swanson replied with a nod.

"Our man has chestnut hair, bleached blonde by much time in the sun. The hat is well worn and frayed around the edges, it is quite old, and as you can see, it too is faded from the sun. It has been mostly worn away by years of perspiration, but if you look closely, the initials M.M. are marked roughly on the inside." Holmes tossed the hat lightly to Swanson, who turned the accessory to and fro before peering at the inside and nodding appraisingly.

"Doctor Watson's accounts do not overestimate you. I shall confer with Anderson, he's been recently appointed Assistant Commissioner of Crime. I'll do what I can to have you made an official consultant as long as this investigation may last. Now I must warn you - it likely won't continue very long after we pass the notion. But I'll do what I can. Keep the hat. Find M.M." Swanson tossed the cap back to Holmes and walked briskly away, beckoning Lestrade to follow behind him.

"What are we going to do until we're given authorization?" I asked, looking at Holmes pointedly.

"We're going to find our missing persons in question," replied Holmes, his voice set in determination. "We are going to find Robert Paul, and we are going to locate M.M."


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

That night, I was woken up by soft but heavy footsteps above me. _It must be Holmes come back,_ I thought to myself. _It's nothing._

The door to the detective's bedroom didn't open or close, and after a few moments through the worn floor I heard a sound of frantic rummaging and a creak as he sunk into his armchair slowly. Holmes must be unwinding before bed, all was well.

Despite these assurances, I could not slow my thoughts enough to fall back asleep, so I rose from bed and shrugged on my dressing gown, making my way as quietly as possible to the sitting room.

The door was ajar, and I was reaching out to push it further inwards when I stopped, my breath catching in my throat. Holmes was leaning forward in his chair, sleeves pushed up to the elbows and a syringe poised over his arm.

Was he hurt, in need of medicine? If so, why did he not simply fetch John?

But he did not appear to be in pain. Instead he promptly shook off his arm from the injection and leapt up, placing the syringe back in its case and turning to a box of documents placed haphazardly on the table.

I decided this was as opportune a time as any to enter the room, and certainly a less artless one. I pushed the door open, Holmes' back to me. "Holmes?"

He jumped visibly and turned toward me, a split second of panic in his eyes. "Emily, is everything all right? There's no reason for you to be up."

"I heard you come back, and was too anxious to sleep any more. I figured if you were doing any research, I may as well assist and make this night a little more productive for both of us. What's in the box?" I asked, deciding now wasn't the time to directly ask ' _what's in the syringe?'_

Holmes pulled off the lid with a flourish. "The London Census Bureau has given me records of every Robert Paul and man with the initials M.M. alive in this city and the surrounding area."

I raised my eyebrows, glancing at the clock. "At one o'clock in the morning?"

Holmes shrugged. "They'll have them back by noon tomorrow."

I blanched. "We're going through this entire box _tonight_?"

"I suggest you go downstairs and put on some coffee."

I sighed, turning towards the door. "Shall I wake John while I'm on the ground floor?"

"As a matter of fact, that would be delightful."

I suppressed a yawn as I shuffled out of the sitting room and down the stairs, knocking on my brother's door as I headed to the kitchen. "John? Holmes wants you upstairs. We have work to do."

A moment later, I heard a grunt and some shuffling and the door opened to reveal the good doctor, shirt and hair considerably rumpled and eyes bleary. "What the blazes does he want us for at this hour?"

"Evidently we need to sift through a box of census records before noon tomorrow. I'm unsure what for exactly, but it seems the Bureau doesn't know these documents are absent. You get dressed, I'm putting on coffee."

I was heating the water in the kitchen as quietly as possible when the bell at the door rang. _What on earth?_ My senses sharpened, mid-night paranoia whispering that something must be wrong. I turned to answer it when hastened footsteps came down the hallway and Mrs. Hudson, clad in her usual worn nightgown, peered into the lit kitchen on her way to the door. "What in heaven's name is going on?" She asked in dismay.

"Apparently there's research that must be urgently done," I called, searching for the coffeepot and some cups as she shuffled to the door and undid the locks.

"Mr. Lynch! A very good..night...or rather, morning, to you! Did Mr. Holmes ask for you?"

"He did," came Andrew's familiar voice, sounding quite weary. "He said as many ready minds as possible were needed tonight - though I confess I have no idea why. Is Emily up?"

"She's in the kitchen, dear," said our landlady sweetly, closing the door behind him and leading him in on the way back to her bedroom.

"He didn't tell me he asked you to come as well," I said, embracing Andrew softly as he entered and helped me ready a tray. "He hadn't even asked for my help, I just happened to be awake."

"Do you have any idea what all this is about?" he asked, brushing a patch of dust off his jacket, which was hanging askew on his lanky frame and holding open the door for me as I balanced the tray in my arms.

I shook my head. "Something about a box of census records?"

"At one in the morning?"

"That's precisely what I asked. How did he contact you anyway?"

"Showed up at my father's doorstep. Asked for Mr. Lynch and then clarified _the younger one._ "

I suppose we'll find out soon enough," I shrugged lightly as we ascended the stairs and entered the sitting room.

Holmes was jovially tending a fire, crackling softly and giving warmth to the room, and John was standing about three feet from the table looking exasperated and none too pleased. I followed his gaze and read his crossed arms and livid frown and saw why. On the floor beside the table were five other boxes so crammed that the lids had taken on a convex shape.

"Holmes!" I groaned, setting the tray onto the table with minimal clatter. "You told me there was _a_ box. _One._ "

"On the contrary, I never specified," said Holmes, straightening and pointing a finger at me. "I simply answered your question as to what was in the first box."

"It's still your fault, you failed to mention the presence of a total of _half a dozen_ boxes that were not within my view."

"Whyever did you think I asked for three extra pairs of eyes?"

"Holmes, I didn't know you did! I just happened to be awake myself, I _asked_ if you wanted me to wake John, and I had no idea Andrew was coming until he showed up at the door!"

"Holmes, what am I even here for?" Andrew asked evenly, hanging his coat on a hook and warming his hands by the fire. I couldn't help but notice how wrinkled his shirt was, as if he'd yanked it from the laundry in a rush, and how he didn't appear to have brushed his hair.

"These boxes are from the Census Bureau," Holmes explained, waving in the direction of the vast amounts of paper.

"They have no clue that they're missing from the building, do they?" Andrew asked in a deadpan voice.

"I don't see any reason that they ever need to. Let's get to work, shall we? Watson, pour the coffee if you please."

"You told me these boxes contain every living Robert Paul and M.M. recorded by the Census Bureau," I said, folding myself up onto the sofa. "But what exactly is it that we're looking for among this...myriad of documents?"

"She has a valid question, Holmes," said my brother, distributing the coffee. "The deductions you made concerning this M.M. fellow are rather helpful, but how are we going to find the particular Robert Paul we're looking for?"

"Don't you dare ask us to visit every Robert Paul in the Greater London area," Andrew added, giving Holmes a pointed look.

Holmes held up a finger. "Don't be so hasty. Mr. Cross said that Paul told him that he was behind time. He also had been on his way to work. Therefore he lives and works within the immediate vicinity of murder. To wake at such an hour and be spry enough to walk to work means it is likely he is between 30 and 40 years of age."

"...Holmes?" John said softly.

"Yes, good man?"

"According to my notes, Cross first said the man did not tell him his name and then later on said his name was Robert Paul. So he did lie."

"Yes, Watson, he lied. He knows exactly who he encountered, and as soon as he is well, we will ask him to further narrow our search."

"And what is it we're looking for concerning M.M. again?" Andrew asked, shuddering after a sip of the straight black coffee and pulling a box towards him.

"He's likely spent time in either Africa, Afghanistan, or India," muttered Holmes, lighting a pipe. "Most likely with a military or religious background. Definitely a well to do family who has fallen on harder times."

John groaned and lowered his head onto the table. " _That's_ all we have to go on?"

Holmes sighed. "I didn't think you'd need more, but...he went to Eton and has ties to the police."

"The census records won't show us any of that information!" I protested. "This is ludicrous, we don't have anywhere near enough."

"You know the Census Bureau," Holmes said, waving his hand and exhaling a steady stream of smoke. "Far more superfluous than they'll ever let on. They make unnecessary notes in the margins, and I'm sure they will prove far more useful to us than anything else."

"You _stole_ all of this for the commentary?" John asked incredulously.

"Information is information, Watson. The cards are in our hand, let us begin!"

* * *

After three hours of scanning typewritten addresses and dates of birth and squinting to make out faded and illegible scribbles, my eyes began to swim and I tilted my head back, blinking away the blur. "I never needed to know how many Matthew Millers and Mikael Martins are in this city," I muttered, barely feeling my lips move.

"I've got at least half a dozen possibilities for Robert Paul," Andrew muttered, waving his shortlist of papers in the air.

"Excellent!" Holmes congratulated him, exuberant as he had been since faced with the option to spend his night this way. "Write them on the chalkboard, would you?"

Andrew groaned, knees cracking as he rose and walked over to the dusty chalkboard that Holmes had pulled out of God knows where in his room.

"I might have something," John said, startling out of a stupor. "This Michael Munroe served as an Inspector General in the Sudan for ten years. He's living in Hammersmith now...wait, this note says his hair is black as a raven. Why would that even be recorded?"

"Holmes, it's almost five o'clock," Andrew said, stoking the fire before sitting back down. "I'm to report to the station by eight, and we're obviously getting nowhere fast."

"Nowhere fast is still somewhere, I must remind you," Holmes replied, standing to scrawl down more possibilities on the chalkboard.

As I rubbed out my eyes and took another look at the paper in front of me, the words stood out at last. "Holmes…" I started, frantically flipping pages until I reached the continuation of the name I saw.

"Yes, Emily?" he responded with astonishing promptness, his head snapping up with such rapidity that I feared it might cause injury.

I stood and crossed the room to stand at his side, keeping my thumb on the paragraph of interest. "Here: ' _Macnaghten, Melville, born 1853. Educated Eton, managed his late father's plantations in India...1873-1887…'_ Holmes, he only returned last year! Fourteen years is, I would suppose, considerable time in the sun for your hair to be bleached. It says he and his wife Dora live with their two children at a respectable house in Henrietta Street."

John's head snapped up. "Henrietta Street? By Jove, that's only a few streets away from here!"

"Indeed," Holmes replied, a dark glint in his eye. "I propose we pay a visit to Mr. Macnaghten and inquire about his hat."

"Not now!" Andrew exclaimed, pausing in the midst of setting another paper aside.

Holmes met Andrew's gaze with a self-satisfied smirk. "What better time to present our evidence to him than when he is least expecting it?"

"What about Robert Paul?" asked my brother, gesturing at the jumbled box of papers in front of Holmes.

"I am sure he will wait," Holmes said evenly, standing and striding easily to the door to fetch his cloak. "The game is afoot, my friends!" He bounced on the balls of his feet and opened the door with dramatic gusto, leaving the three of us to take our overgarments and follow behind. I made a discreet stop in my room to get properly dressed.

* * *

The early morning air was damp and chill, the sort of feeling that settles deep in the bones and refuses to leave. I shivered as our irregular party made our way down Baker Street and towards Wigmore Street, where we would turn after the post office onto Henrietta.

Andrew, looking over, saw my trembling frame and pulled me to his side, his arm around my waist pulling my cloak tighter and giving a warm and comforting presence at my back.

Number 10 Henrietta Street was a quaint little house, made of white painted bricks, and trimmed around the eaves with soft tones of grey. I craned my neck towards the upper floor before realizing what was happening on the ground. My brother was waving to a young woman with a basket of fruits who was in the process of unlocking the door.

"Oh, is Mr. Macnaghten expecting you?" she asked in a soft Scottish accent, brushing a wisp of blonde hair out of her face.

"Not exactly," answered Holmes, closing the gap between them in two quick strides. "It's quite urgent that we speak with him, if you wouldn't mind rousing him. You are the maid, of course?"

"Yes, sir. Millicent Midson, sir. I come here early in the mornings to clean and prepare breakfast - and of course I must bring Mrs. Macnaghten her fruits, she's had a terrible cold as of late, we're told it's a vitamin deficiency. Would you like to come wait in the foyer while I tell him there's company?"

"Thank you very much," Holmes said with a nod, and the maid unlocked the door and ushered us in.

The house was still chilled, but shelter from the biting wind was still welcome.

Millicent set down her basket of oranges, lemons, and grapes on a small sideboard and looked in confusion towards what must have been the parlor door. A soft, flickering light stole beneath the door, and faint voices were speaking with great concern. She gently knocked on the door. "Mr. Macnaghten? You have some people here to speak with you?"

"One moment, Millie," called a tired voice from within.

She turned to us with a sympathetic half smile. "He must be speaking with someone else," she informed us. "I'll just take these fruits into the kitchen to serve with breakfast if you need anything."

John nodded and thanked her softly, clearly sensing Holmes' attempts to hear what was being discussed at such an early hour.

With all of us understanding the importance of silence, it was easier to make out the conversation behind the closed door.

"...didn't have to resign on my behalf," the man who had responded to Millicent was saying.

"Tensions have been mounting for months," muttered the other man. "How that military prat got appointed is beyond me, all he's done is stir conflict. Anyone could see you're more than qualified, and in need of a good spot. Williamson needs all the help he can get, anyhow. This has been a long time coming."

"But what now?" asked Macnaghten. "If I were to be reconsidered, what good would I be without you there?"

The second man huffed audibly. "Don't worry, I have another plan. I'm far enough on Matthew's good side to work things out. Don't keep a bee in your bonnet, mate, I've got a solution to this."

"You'd better, I don't dare think what-"

"Hush now. I've got to go."

None of us could make eye contact with each other, the mystery practically tangible in the air, as the parlor door opened and a plump, upper middle-aged man with a commanding presence emerged and swept past us out the door. Andrew stiffened slightly beside me, and I shot him a questioning glance.

"Now then," said Macnaghten, a younger man with a bristling chestnut mustache and blond hair that retained some darker color at the roots, "how can I help you?" His eyes were astonishingly similar to Holmes', grey with a tint of blue, and holding both sharp intelligence and soft compassion.

"Mr. Macnaghten," said Holmes, extending his hand, "I am Sherlock Holmes. These are...my companions. You know of the murder of Mary Ann Nichols, the prostitute, yes?"

Macnaghten's adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Of course, Mr. Holmes. What does this have to do with me?"

"Yesterday following the inquest, one of the witnesses was attacked in his home. We did not catch a glimpse of the suspect, but when he fled he left behind this hat with his initials traced inside." He pulled the hat from inside his cloak with a flourish, extending it for Macnaghten's examination. "Based on evidence on this hat, we have traced it to you. Is this your hat?"

"Yes, sir, it certainly is," cried Macnaghten in wonder. "But I assure you I had nothing to do with such a barbaric incident. I left this hat on my train from Blackheath last week. Your assailant must have taken it. I wish I could be of more help to you."

"Thank you, Mr. Macnaghten," said Holmes, handing the astonished man the hat. "It is, then, my pleasure to return this to you. Good day."

"And the same to you," replied our impromptu host, letting us out.

"So that was a dead end?" my brother inquired as we walked briskly back in the direction of Baker Street.

"Anything but," replied Holmes tersely, walking a few paces ahead of us with his elongated legs. "There were no hairs on the hat besides those matching our dear Mr. Macnaghten."


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

The man whose discussion with Macnaghten had been so pressing was named James Monro, the former Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard. He had resigned on the day of Mary Nichols' murder, livid with Commissioner Charles Warren for a number of reasons, but tipped over the edge by Warren's refusal to hire Macnaghten for the open position of Assistant Chief Constable underneath Chief Constable Adolphus Williamson. Andrew filled us in on the details after we returned to Baker Street, warming our hands in front of the rekindled fire.

" _Macnaghten,_ I should have remembered the name!" Andrew had cursed himself. "Monro's quite fond of the story. He was Inspector General of the police force in Bengal for a number of years until '84. Macnaghten was assaulted by natives in '81 while maintaining the plantations and Monro handled the case. They were inseparable after that. Since Macnaghten came back last year, Monro's been trying to land him a position. Warren keeps shooting him down."

"That doesn't sound like the only reason Monro dislikes him," I said casually to Andrew two days later, as we strolled down a path in Regent's Park.

"I suppose that was only the tipping point," Andrew said, stopping to examine a knot on an ancient elm tree. "Every seasoned officer in the Yard is jealous of Warren. They've toiled here half their lives and then Home Secretary Matthews brings in a soldier with no previous policing experience."

"Well, surely he just wanted to bring more military discipline into the ranks."

"Of course he did, Commissioner Henderson wasn't seated for very long after my father, but he left behind enough of a mess. Of course everyone's blaming Warren for the chaos, seeing as he brought such a radical change."

Naturally," I replied with a nod. "Such is the course of humanity. We blame the newcomer rather than his antecedent."

"How long did Holmes and the Doctor say they would be gone, again?"

I sighed heavily. "However long it takes them to track down and interview the dozen Robert Pauls they set aside."

Andrew shook his head, mouth tilted downwards. "Cross's statement smacks of something more than a hasty lie or misinterpretation."

"I see, you're finally viewing the world as I do."

"Not everything is meant conspiratorially, Emily."

"Or so they would have you believe."

From about a half mile up the road, the bells of Saint Matthias' church chimed one o'clock. Andrew met my gaze. "We should head to the Bethnal Green dispensary," he said grimly, and I nodded and took his hand as we made our way towards the cab stand at the gate.

While Holmes and my brother interviewed every Robert Paul who lived and worked within a five mile radius of the murder, we had been instructed to visit the dispensary near Doveton Street and see that Charles Cross was doing well and able to give us some information on his statement and attacker.

* * *

Our carriage ride to Bethnal Green felt swifter than it was, the minutes flying by with our spontaneous and natural conversation. I felt myself with Andrew, and though I was at last beginning to feel at home with the others, I was still slightly stiff, subconsciously convinced that I had standards I must rise to meet. But with Andrew, it was relaxed, mature yet as casual as child's play.

I noticed the building much more than I had the first time, the situation being just as professional but much less urgent. The building had obviously been converted from a bank or school of some sort. It was long, but not very tall, and stood out regally while still being grimy enough to blend in with the surrounding area. The place was enclosed by a wrought iron fence, the spikes half as tall as the building itself. The black paint of the fence was chipping, and in several places had been etched or scraped off entirely with a knife, stick, or even someone's fingernails.

Once inside, the windows were high and arched, looking almost like a grand palace, but the decor was scant and the walls stained and faded. The only part I had truly had the time to observe was the hallway in which we had waited to find out if Cross would even survive the harrowing attack.

Andrew caught a passing doctor by the arm and quietly asked him where we could find Charles Cross.

Bewildered, the man looked back and forth between us. "But...the young lady with you was just here this morning. She checked him out herself."

Andrew's gaze slid to me, and I slowly shook my head. "I most certainly didn't, the last time I was here was when we admitted him."

The doctor pursed his lips together and shook his head. "I am very sorry, but at first light today, a young woman - your exact spitting image - came in and inquired if he was well enough to be released. I argued that he should be kept at least another day, but she insisted that she would care for him."

"She was taking him back to his place of residence?" Andrew asked, eyes narrowing.

"Indeed sir, that's what she told me."

"Emily, come on, we've got to get over there," Andrew informed me gruffly, taking my arm and sprinting towards the exit.

The looks we received as we raced through the dispensary courtyard and towards number 22, Doveton Street nagged at some core construct of my psyche, but were instinctively brushed away as unimportant. I wasn't quite sure what was going on, but whatever it was, it seemed to have grabbed ahold of Andrew's well-trained sense of urgency.

The slightly lopsided door of the tiny, two-roomed residence hung ajar on a single hinge. Andrew held out an arm and pushed me ever so slightly behind him, so close that I could feel him breathing hard as he withdrew a pen-knife from his pocket and flipped it open, nudging the door inwards with his toe.

The kitchen and living area were bare. No dishes, no table, no bed, no wardrobe. Nothing except a single, solitary female figure standing with her back to us, shoulders straight, staring with absolute impassion out the small window, still shattered.

Andrew pushed me farther behind him, leaving me to peek breathlessly over his shoulder as he edged with the utmost caution towards the unmoved young woman.

Before he could reach out to touch her shoulder or dared to call out, she turned, slowly but deliberately, and Andrew gasped and took a step backwards, straight into me.

 _There has to be a mirror there, that must be a mirror, when did that mirror get here?_ My brain tried to rationalise it another way, any other way.

 _There is no mirror there._

Ariana stood before us, eyes sharp and clear but without emotion.

 _That is not my sister. That cannot be my sister._

 _That is my sister._

Her face was devoid of any recognition as she looked coolly upon our faces. "It's a wonder you didn't come after this information sooner," she said, taking a small pocket watch from inside her cloak and glancing at it. "If you'll excuse me, I must be going."

Without another word, leaving us stunned in her wake, she lifted her skirts and jumped cleanly out the window into the alley.

A split second later, Andrew released me and hurdled the window frame after her, but as I numbly crossed to peer outside myself, it was futile. The alley was empty except for a dead cat.

* * *

"Holmes, I swear to you, there is no other explanation for this," Andrew said gravely, his arms crossed tightly as he stood resolute near the mantel, staring at Holmes with hidden terror in his eyes.

"But it's simply preposterous," Holmes returned icily, each syllable driving another hole into my damaged heart. "Emily, is this true?" He turned to me.

I did not answer. I had not spoken a word since our return, nor could I seek out within myself any desire to confirm or deny anything. I sat rigidly on the sofa, feeling suspended in time and space, the only thread attaching me to reality the sight of an untouched mug of tea before me.

 _That was not my sister. That was my sister. That was not my sister._

"She's still in shock," murmured Andrew's voice, far away, as he went to the linen closet and returned with a thick blanket to drape over my shoulders.

"I pray we can expect Watson back shortly," Holmes drew out, leaning forward and steepling his fingers in front of him, throwing deeply concerned glances in my direction every few moments.

"Why isn't he here?" Andrew inquired, taking a seat in the wicker basket chair across from me.

"One of the Robert Pauls we located was admitted to Lincoln's Asylum yesterday due to acute psychological distress. Watson alone has the necessary qualifications to be allowed into the solitary confinement wards. You said the house was otherwise empty?"

"Stripped bare. Absolutely no trace that anyone had lived there at all."

"And you're positively sure of the identity of the...person in question?"

"Holmes, I am _courting_ this girl," Andrew said, gesturing wildly in my direction. "Believe me when I say that I have taken the liberty of committing every curve of her face to my memory. I'd know an imposter anywhere, and _she_ was certainly not one. That was Ariana."

"Andrew…" Holmes warned, with a glance in my direction.

"Holmes, she's practically catatonic," Andrew said wearily, lowering his face into his hands. "We are free to speak."

I was not catatonic.

"Andrew, our young Emily might be emotionally overwhelmed by this...development, but let me assure you that she is completely with us."

 _Thank you, Holmes._

"The question now is _why._ " Andrew kept his head bowed, shaking it with absolute bewilderment.

I was wondering that myself. Only I did not want to know. I wanted to leave, go somewhere happy, somewhere _safe._ But I couldn't even muster the energy to detach myself from the mug of tea holding my sanity together.

Finally, my mind allowed me to have a brief respite, and I could recall nothing from then until some time later when John arrived and I started at the noise of the door opening.

"Holmes, I'm not so sure this one's it either, he seems absolutely incapable of having done more than ramble on about cabbages...what the devil happened here?" I heard the crinkling noise of him shoving his notebook in his pocket without closing it as he crossed the room in a few great strides and bent down in front of me to ascertain that I was indeed capable of more than rambling myself.

Holmes sighed deeply and Andrew tapped his foot, staring at the floor. Neither of them seemed fit to answer, so I found myself opening my mouth. Someone had to do it. "Ariana."

John's brow furrowed, obviously having not heard the name in a considerable amount of time. "Who?"

Holmes snorted and leapt up from his armchair, agitated. "Her sister, Watson! _Your_ sister."

Remembrance dawned on my brother's face, which promptly fell again as he turned to look over his shoulder at Holmes. "But isn't she-"

"Missing? Indeed my good fellow."

"Then what on earth-"

Andrew sighed, massaging his temple. "We went to the dispensary to visit Charles Cross, and the attending physician said a young woman, one who looked exactly like Emily, had checked him out this morning. We went back to his house and there was nothing there except for...her."

"Don't leave out the most telling part, Andrew," I said quietly, shaking my head. "She didn't recognize me. It wasn't...her. Her eyes had no emotion, just...nothing."

"Someone _please_ explain to me how this makes sense," John said warily after a moment.

"It doesn't," spat Holmes from behind gritted teeth. "It ties in to absolutely nothing."

John sighed and took my hands in his, squeezing warmth into them. "Andrew, go downstairs and fetch Emily a fresh cup of tea, this cold one won't do."

"What happens now?" I asked as John tugged my blanket tighter around my shoulders.

"You do your best not to think about this," he replied, his hand on my shoulder as he made solemn eye contact, "and you retire quite early tonight."


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

* * *

I did not retire early that night. At half past eight, I took an incredibly large volume of Holmes' personal annals of crime, 1782-1810, into my chamber with me to read until I could be certain that John had retired.

It was nearly midnight before the soft voices from the sitting room ceased, and I heard my brother's footsteps shuffling with his slight limp through the hall and down the stairs. A few minutes afterwards, I inched my door open, willing it not to creak, and decided not to pause at the door this time.

Holmes was standing at the chalkboard, sketching out a detailed map of the streets surrounding the murder scene. He looked up as I entered. "Watson should have found it obvious that you would not voluntarily retire early."

"I'm only one thing," I replied, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting down, chin in my hands, to observe his activity. "Really, do you ever sleep anymore?"

He shot me a minute glare, but said nothing.

"I suppose we all have our own vices," I said nonchalantly, my eyes boring a hole in the back of his head until he turned around to face me.

"As for you, does anything get past you?"

"My instincts are sharp as a fresh guillotine blade. Does John know?"

"I'm quite sure he does. He's not as dull as circumstances sometimes make him out to be. As if you're one to lecture me on what he does or does not know concerning our _vices?_ "

I averted my eyes quickly, dodging the comment. "What's his vice, then?"

Holmes set down his chalk without a word and crossed to his desk, withdrawing a small key from his pocket. He unlocked one of the drawers and pulled out my brother's wallet, holding it up.

"He gambles," I said without hesitation, my eyes darting from the key in Holmes' breast pocket to the wallet.

"He _gambled_ ," Holmes corrected me, shaking the wallet in my direction before replacing it in its lockbox. "No doubt a compensation for the sudden lack of adrenalin after returning from Afghanistan. I simply keep his expenditures on a leash, just as a preventative measure."

I again averted my eyes to intensely study the floor, a lump rising in my throat as I became acutely aware of Holmes' compassion and willingness to hold his friend accountable and give a strong shoulder to lean on.

"It's been almost a month, you know."

Holmes slid into a chair across from me. "I'm glad. You know it doesn't do any good."

I met his gaze. "Neither does cocaine or whatever it is you've been using so liberally."

He maintained eye contact, not wavering. "It stimulates my mind."

"It gives me control," I countered.

"Do you need me to…" he trailed off, eyes straying to the once again locked drawer.

"I'll let you know."

Holmes nodded and stood, grabbing the chalk from the tabletop, not seeming to care about the powdery streak it left on the polished wood.

"What is it exactly that you're doing?"

"Drawing myself a visual representation of the vicinity surrounding the murder scene. The star here is where Mary Nichols' body was found. The squares are the addresses of the Robert Pauls we interviewed today, and the rectangles are their respective places of business. That equilateral triangle is Charles Cross's home, and the scalene triangle there is his workplace."

"You're trying to ascertain whose routes would have taken them through Buck's Row on their way to work." I stood, entranced by the curving streets and symbolic shapes and dotted lines connecting them all, weaving past my chair to stand beside him.

"Precisely. I have so far concluded that none of the area's Robert Pauls would have any reason to pass through that street if they wanted to take a remotely sensible route. See?" He traced lightly with his finger from each address to its resident's corresponding jobsite. Indeed, in every case, making a detour to walk down Buck's Row would have added at least ten unnecessary minutes to their walk.

"So it wasn't any of them?"

"None of them matched our profile."

I caught his eye. "And you're quite sure of this _profile?_ "

A slight annoyance flitted across his face. "Anyone who both _sees_ and _observes_ could not have had a doubt in their mind."

I crossed my arms loosely, my eyes following the lines that now marred the cleanly drawn streets like the golden thread in a labyrinth, my eyes falling on Charles Cross's house. "Holmes...if he lived here...and worked there…" I made a smudge with my finger on each triangle. "...And he said he was behind time himself...then why was _he_ going through Buck's Row?"

Holmes followed my finger carefully as I traced out a much shorter route, and gave a small cry of triumph, clapping me on the shoulder. "Emily, by George, you've done it!"

I smirked, crossing my arms again. "Sometimes two heads are better than a single overly stimulated one."

Holmes, instead of engaging in my witty repartee, leapt across the room in something of a spronk and foraged in his desk, throwing papers about like a small whirlwind. "He should never have been there at all! It's perfectly obvious!"

"What's obvious?" I started gathering sheafs of paper in my hand, knowing that he wasn't liable to do it and that someone had to before morning came and either John or Mrs. Hudson were greeted with the mess. "Charles Cross didn't kill her!"

"Of course he didn't kill her," Holmes said, finger in the air triumphantly as he slammed the drawer shut, not bothering to replace anything, "but he succeeding in distracting the police and us from who did."

"And who was that?"

"Robert Paul, of course!"

"Holmes, haven't we determined that Robert Paul doesn't even exist?"

"Yes, but someone does, and that someone is using the name Robert Paul to divert us from his trail."

"And Charles Cross knew about it."

"Why else would he go out of logic's way to give us the man's name, thereby setting us on a trail that would lead nowhere?"

I sighed, gingerly sliding the drawer open and placing the many scribbled upon pages back inside. "That still tells us nothing about who we're looking for."

Holmes sank into his armchair, plucking his violin bow from the floor beside him and playing with it agitatedly. "It tells us that this isn't a crime of passion. George Whitby, Ichabod Charles, these men kill in an uncontrollable fit of sexual rage or hate - a byproduct of marital infidelity or a crime of racial origins. They do not lie to escape from the consequences - they can't, because the motives were not premeditated and there was no time for such a thing. It takes planning not to back one's self into a corner, it takes... _calculation._ This murder clearly has some ulterior motive, and it completely mystifies me." He tapped the bow restlessly against his knee.

I had never heard Sherlock Holmes admit to being mystified by any aspect of a case, out of the many I had witnessed since coming to live in these rooms. With the publication of my brother's first story _A Study In Scarlet_ the previous Christmas, the detective had only gained popularity, and so numerous were his cases that he was forced to work a few at a time upon occasion, an action which he detested for reasons of concentration and mental clarity. In spite of all this business, never once had he admitted to being so clueless - and never had a single case extended for this long without producing significant leads.

"If there is an ulterior motive, then the victim being a person of such ill repute makes no sense," I offered, speaking aloud what had been stewing in my mind since the last of August.

"All that can be deduced from our knowledge is that it's all the more sensational since the Yard has put it at the top of their list. If only I could find out why they're prioritizing it without ruining my chances as a consultant…"

"Suppose someone in the force made sure it flew to the top of the list," I mused, staring thoughtfully into the embers of the dying fire. "But for what reason…"

* * *

I had fallen asleep in the largest wicker chair, legs curled up underneath me, and I groggily felt Holmes spreading a blanket over me not long after. When I awoke, a small ray of dawning light reflecting through the windowpane and hitting my eye, he was staring into the fireplace, fingers steepled and deep in thought.

I sleepily followed his gaze, turning my head slightly, and the pair of us silently watched as the single burning ember left at the bottom of the kindling glowed faintly and gradually flickered out.

"You should have woken me," I slurred, stretching out the arm that had been folded under my head.

Holmes' eyes snapped up, and I once again wondered how he could be both deep in thought and attuned to the present at the same time. "For what purpose? You don't have such a singular murder to solve."

My brow furrowed. He sounded vaguely melancholy. "Holmes, have you been brooding there over your confusion in this case _all night?_ "

He huffed and shook his head. "I am not _confused._ There's simply not enough facts!" He drummed his fingers rapidly on his leg. "With no practical evidence, I'm sure the solution will turn out to be plain as day. A jilted ex-lover or the disturbed bastard son of a prostitute."

I lowered my gaze, still blinking the blurriness out of my eyes. "Holmes, I know we are both aware why theories like that can't possibly be the case."

I elicited no response from the detective, who simply let a stream of air out his nose and closed his eyes, settling into a state of meditation.

"People turn to shaky explanations to account for what they can't or don't want to," I said, still staring at the floor. "Don't be one of them." I stood and crossed the room to the bell pull, ringing Mrs. Hudson for morning coffee.

"You say that I can't explain it," said Holmes after I'd turned my back, his voice betraying the emptiness I was sure to find in his eyes.

"Of course you can," I said, glancing back at him as I cleared the table of papers and wiped away the remaining chalk dust from the previous night. "You're Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

The day passed by incredibly slowly. When by noon nothing more had happened than Holmes reading John and I an account of Mary Nichols' funeral the previous day, I decided to purloin a handful of biscuits from the kitchen and go visit Nicole.

On my way out the door, I nearly bumped into a young man who was oscillating back and forth on the sidewalk, clearly deciding whether or not giving Holmes his problem was worth the effort.

"Most definitely an _affaire de coeur,_ " I could practically hear the detective muttering from the upper window.

"Ring the bell once and the landlady will show you up," I said in a soothing tone, resting my hand gently on the trembling man's shoulder.

The fact of the matter was that ever since the publication of my brother's story, people had been coming from various districts of London not just for Holmes' expertise in plumbing the depths of the most baffling mysteries in their lives, but had come to regard him as a sort of counsellor. He'd received more visits than I could count from young people unhappy with their marriages, mothers visiting on behalf of their children whose dog had died or run away, and, most notably, an elderly couple, the woman being convinced that she'd caught her husband in bed with another woman, but the husband in question being barely coherent and unable to recall any such incident. Much to the sleuth's chagrin, these trivial mishaps had made up a sizeable portion of his engagements from the spring until now, which had made him considerably happy to receive a prostitute's murder as a commitment, even if his involvement was as simple as consultation.

The cab ride to Nicole's house was short, and I engaged my constant pastime of observing the denizen of our great cesspool as we jolted along.

The effect of observing the public flitting about whilst all I could hear was a constant buzz in the background was rather pleasing, much akin to the artistry of a mimetic performance. Indeed, the wistful grace of it lulled me into a sort of trance until I was disrupted by the cab coming to a sudden halt.

Nicole was, in fact, preparing to leave on her way to visit me, being concerned that I hadn't been by since the day of the murder. Thus it was that we adjourned to Hyde Park to take in the afternoon, which was at last pleasant and sunny.

"So let me get this straight," Nicole said, putting up a hand to stop me as I was concluding my summary of the week's occurrences. "Coroner Baxter wants to keep the killer's class hushed up, Charles Cross is somehow involved and was nearly killed, now he's missing, and your sister helped him disappear?"

"...that's the working theory, anyhow," I confirmed, grimacing at the complexity of our situation as I threw a couple of biscuits to a horde of nearby pigeons who appeared nearly ready to consume each other.

Nicole shook her head. "This is certainly singular, I only wish I could be more informed and help in any way. I trust Holmes is having the time of his life?"

"He's...determined, but rather disheartened that not enough was left behind for him to make any but the vaguest of deductions. Especially when someone's cleaning up their messes as soon as we perceive that there is a mess. And what do you mean that you won't be able to be involved?"

"On Monday we received a letter from an old friend of our mother's in Vienna. She recently read a study about the pollution in London and she thinks some fresh continental air will greatly improve our _weakened constitution._ "

"As if Vienna is any better, with all their munitions factories!"

Nicole shrugged. "Oh, but it's _Vienna,_ so naturally it's only the most sophisticated place to sojourn - outside of Paris, that is. Our train for the Channel leaves in the morning."

"I'll write to you often," I offered, placing a consoling hand on Nicole's arm. "Hopefully my own accounts will be more reliable than whatever codswallop makes it into the European papers."

"Do tell Andrew that I'd much rather be snooping about with you two."

My breath escaped in something of a shrill giggle when I heard Andrew's name. "Oh! I nearly forgot to tell you!" And I informed her of Andrew's unexpected kiss and the subsequent encounters that had followed.

Nicole's hand was clasped over her mouth the entire time, hiding her grin from my sight. "He fancies you!"

"Nicole," I replied, blushing, "of course he does. He's fancied me since the day we met."

"No, but Emily! It's clearly love, not some sort of short-lived whirlwind of youthful passion! He may have fancied you from the beginning, but he did not admit to possibly being in love until he found himself unexpectedly at death's door. Then he waits a whole year before slipping you a kiss?"

My cheeks reddened even further, and I was forced to look away, biting my lip against the smile that threatened to burst free.

* * *

After Nicole and I returned to her house, and I bid _adieu_ to her and Lucy, I hailed a second cab to take me to the H Division police station in Whitechapel, where I knew I could find Andrew.

I had been to the building twice before. It was a three story affair with far too many windows in some places and not enough in others. The eaves atop the formidable edifice jutted out over the sidewalk as if the law were attempting to shelter the city's denizen but had arms too short to make the impact that they hoped for.

A condensed brick archway highlighted the entranceway, a set of double doors trimmed in iron grating that made a screech all too similar to that of "Murder!" when opened. It was towards this ingress that I made my way, lowering my head and pulling my cloak closer around my neck as I felt disdainful eyes on me.

The sergeant leafing through ledgers at the main desk looked up with an eyebrow cocked as I entered, and I did my best to ignore the stale smell of alcohol emanating from a snoring man slumped on a bench on the opposite side of the scuffed foyer.

"You wouldn't think anyone could find that much to drink at this hour, unless you're accustomed to Whitechapel," the sergeant muttered to me, standing as I approached the desk. "I'm Detective-Sergeant East, miss, can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Constable Lynch? Do you know if he's in?" I ducked my head and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind my ear, trying to hide the sudden flush in my cheeks. I was a well-dressed, respectable young woman, it was perfectly obvious what my connection to Andrew was.

Sergeant East shoved aside the three open ledgers on his desk in favor of a battered sign-in journal beneath them, the binding frayed and cracking. He ran his finger along the page for a moment before nodding. "He's here, all right. Should be on the second floor, the Superintendent's holding a group meeting. You'll want to go all the way up the stairs to the end of the hall, the door on the left."

I nodded with a small smile, turning to make my way briskly towards the staircase.

"Miss!" East called after me. "Could you please provide your signature and mark yourself as a visitor?"

This wasn't something I should have forgotten, the Metropolitan Police, despite their usual lack of organization, took their records of all who came in and out very seriously, particularly after the notorious thief Callum had managed to get past all officers on duty and walk out with his own criminal records in hand. I returned to the desk and took the pen East handed me, scrawling down my name and writing 'visitor' in the box off to the right.

"Thank you miss," East nodded to me and snatched the book back, looking around anxiously.

Although I had visited the building before, I had never had occasion to venture to the upper stories, so the staircase was completely unknown to me. The steps were rather steep and block-shaped, and covered over with worn planks of wood, smooth from the feet of innumerable police boots trudging up and down them. They were just wide enough for two people to pass by side by side, but they would have to tilt themselves to avoid brushing shoulders.

I passed by the first landing, sparing a glance to the long hallway beyond, and continued on. The top corridor would undoubtedly be similar in appearance. Indeed, when I reached the top, the second floor too was a long hall with a wooden floor of light brown, doors and office spaces lined one after the other along the way, so that there was hardly an inch of wall space between each door. At the very end of the corridor, on the far back wall, was a bulletin board crowded with papers, which seemed to consist of outstanding warrants and newspaper clippings as I got closer.

The door on the left was slightly ajar, and a warm, flickering light shone through the crack. Several different voices were speaking softly, none of them sounding happy at all. As I was poised to knock on the door, one of the voices rose above the rest. "Lynch, take these papers down to Reid's office. We have private matters to discuss."

I heard a small noise of assent and the scrape of a chair scooting back, and the door opened in my face.

Andrew's eyebrows raised at me, but he stayed quiet until he had pulled the door closed. "What are you doing here?"

I spread my hands in front of me sheepishly. "I came to visit?" I offered.

"Personal visits aren't exactly welcomed, you know that."

"Is it really a personal visit if it's from the Mets' favorite feminine inquirer?"

"You know a good lot of them don't like you, it's unorthodox."

"I live with Sherlock Holmes, Andrew, I'm _good._ "

"They still don't trust you."

"I plan to change that."

Andrew sighed, brandishing the loosely tied bundle of papers at me. "You couldn't wait until dinner? You knew I was coming by to drop off a copy of these files for Holmes."

I narrowed my eyes. "You are?"

"Swanson's request to make him full-time consultant on the case was approved. I've been asked to deliver him and Doctor Watson a copy of the surgeon's findings and the sketches and photographs of the body."

Oh. Well, in that case, my coming here had been more than unnecessary, but that didn't mean I regretted it.

Suddenly footsteps began striding authoritatively down the hall towards us. "Constable Lynch, those papers were supposed to be on my desk an hour ago." The voice was stern but weary, and I turned to see a man in a stretched tweed jacket standing with his hands in his pockets. His posture was relaxed, and his soft grey eyes betrayed how much he had seen and that he never wished to see it again.

"Yes, sir," Andrew replied, his back stiffening more out of habit than necessity. Something told me that this man who must be Reid wasn't concerned with militant discipline. "I apologize, sir, I was only just excused from the Superintendent's office." He untied the string binding the folder and pulled out a stack of papers, about half the contents of the stiff cardboard container, and handed them to Reid.

"Is this the girl?" Reid asked, nodding at me whilst flipping through the pages in his hand with great ease.

"Yes, sir. This is Emily Watson. She and her brother lodge with Sherlock Holmes."

"A pleasure, Miss Watson," Reid greeted me, tucking the files under his arm and extending his right hand for me to shake. "I'm Local Inspector Edmund Reid. The others here haven't left Mr. Lynch alone, pestering him for details about his fine girl. It's good to meet you at last."

"And the same to you, Inspector," I replied, shaking his hand firmly and trying to hold back a blush.

"If you'll excuse me a moment, sir, I'm just going to escort her out. I'll be at your office in half a tick." With that, Andrew took my arm and led me gently towards the stairs.

"I know what you're thinking," Andrew muttered as we carefully descended the steep stairs. "I have mentioned you to the other officers here, it's not as if I could keep someone like you a contained secret."

I felt my cheeks growing even redder, and I bit my lip. "Actually, I was wondering about the phrase _she and her brother_. Isn't John more than an afterthought?"

Andrew met my gaze as we reached the first story landing. "Not to me."

My heart skipped a beat, and I had to fill the silence with my curiosity. "How long have they known about us?"

This time I noticed Andrew's face growing suspiciously red as he glanced sheepishly in the opposite direction. "Longer than we have. Constable Smith convinced me I should stop dallying and actually...kiss you."

I whirled around to face him, cornering him against the wall with a smirk. "Well, I for one am glad he did."

* * *

Dinner that night was a quiet affair, Andrew arrived just as we were sitting down at the table, and Holmes gave a cry of excitement and began brandishing the sketches, prompting an eye roll from my brother.

"Holmes, could you possibly show round the pictures of the dead woman _after_ we eat?"

It was the first time I had actually seen Mary Nichols. Her face was delicate, and she seemed to have kept herself rather clean for someone who made their living on the streets. Her mouth was slightly open in the photograph, and I could make out several spots where teeth had been knocked out, and quite recently, judging from the still sharp edges of the teeth surrounding the gaps.

She could almost have been peacefully asleep were it not for the one eye that had been left half open, as if she had been immortalized in the action of making a startling realization. The other factor that stood out as most disturbing was her wounds. From the angle at which the photograph was taken, it seemed absurd to me how the head was still attached at all. The wound at the neck was gaping and I could faintly make out the outline of her severed artery. Clumps of blood soaked hair were stuck to the neck and even tangled inside the fatal injury. As one's eyes moved downwards, the scene became even more horrifying. Her legs were spread apart at a suggestive angle, her skirt pulled up to her knees and torn through in places, soaked with blood. It left the viewer non-exposed to the actual mutilations of the flesh underneath, yet with enough suggestion to make one feel the appalling violation of the crime.

It was this image, not as separate entities, but as a whole, that I could not shake from my mind, and that was still impressed upon my mind's eye that night when I closed my eyes in an attempt at sleep.


	12. Interlude: 'Tis Pity

Interlude: 'Tis Pity

" ' _Tis pity she's a whore." -John Ford_

* * *

The night of the 7th of September was cold, but not rainy, both a relief and a concern to the dark stranger. Of course it was a less miserable night, but his evidence couldn't be washed away. He needed to be exceptionally cautious.

He paused under a streetlamp and removed the folded sheet of orders from his pocket, squinting at the slanted writing, difficult to read in the shadows. It had a slit torn in it from his other instruments, and he struggled to press the gap together.

 _Be as a shadow. Draw your weapon only if the time is right. Let none of the force deduce your presence. The rest is up to you._

His eyes skimmed these words, which he had read many times over again. Instead he concentrated on the lines below, his fingers sliding down to the second item on the list.

 _Saturday, 8th September._

There was time, naturally. Smiling to himself, he lit a cigarette and leaned against the building by the alleyway, half in shadows and hidden as well as anything else in this district.

The polluted clouds overhead formed a thick haze, through which neither moon nor stars could be seen. The stranger missed the sight of celestial bodies; he longed to leave the city again and return to the countryside that had seen him grow. With a dissatisfied grunt, he puffed the last of his cigarette and ground it out on the side of the building. Now was no time to be sentimental. He tore his eyes away from the sky and surveyed the street.

A few drunkards staggered away or into a pub a few hundred yards away, and one man wrapped himself whimsically around a lamp post, laughing hysterically.

A muffled cry came from a backyard across the way, and a few minutes later a woman comes out, looking with a smirk at something in her hands as the silhouette of a man is left to scramble over the fence and be on his way.

The man in the shadows stuffed the instructions back in his pocket and remained in place as the woman crossed the street briskly, fitting three brass rings onto her left middle finger. He ducked his head as she waved to someone nearby. "Eliza!"

"Annie," responded a woman with a smoother voice, emerging from beneath the awning of a cooper's shop. "Done some business, I see?"

"Gent didn't 'ave no coins," Annie replied, "but 'e gave me these. I've done right well, I'll surely pawn them by morning." She held up her left hand to show off her newly gained jewelry.

"Still nothing to guarantee a bed tonight," Eliza chided, clucking her tongue.

"I must head to the house for a bite before I continue. I'll have my bed-money, don't you worry." With that, her husky voice cracked and she began to cough deeply, grabbing Eliza's forearm for support. A moment later she straightened up, wiping her mouth. "Just a spot o' blood, I'll be going." She gave best wishes to Eliza and set off in the direction of Dorset Street.

The stranger peeled himself off the cold brick wall and followed after her at a steady pace, keeping a few yards between them. Annie continued to cough, her entire body shaking. The time was twenty past eleven.

* * *

After several minutes of following the woman he had decided to prey upon, the stranger stopped in the shadows behind Crossingham's Lodging House in Dorset Street.

Annie, still clearing her throat and pulling her coat closer around her, had decided to forgo the front door of the establishment and instead went to the back, knocking on the door firmly.

The door swung open with a low creak, and a rather short man peered out, his ruddy face illuminated by yellow, flickering lights from inside. "Annie. You get your bed-money?"

"Not yet, Tim. I've come back 'ere for a pint. Haven't the money to go anywhere else. After that I've got to go again, but I'll soon be back."

The squat man pressed his lips together, sighing deeply. "This can't go on, Annie." He seemed to be losing his tolerance, yet he swung the door fully open and ushered Annie in, peering around the darkness before closing the door again.

The stranger crept closer to the window, shifting himself onto a low crate in the shadows so that he could watch what was happening inside the lodging house kitchen without being seen. It felt very good to get the weight off his leg, even though he'd never publicly admit that it troubled him so.

Propping up the leg to ease the pins and needles, he fished another cigarette out of his coat and lit it. Puffing absently, he kept a close watch on the window, through which he could see Annie showing off her brass rings and succumbing to another coughing fit as the man Tim poured her a mug of beer.

She had drink, she would not be going anywhere for a good while. The stranger flicked away his cigarette and laid his head back against the fence behind him. He did not mean for his eyes to briefly flicker closed. The time was a quarter til midnight.

* * *

With a start, the watcher opened his eyes, grimacing and adjusting his leg. Another man had joined Annie in the kitchen, and he was pouring them both a fresh pint. They sat across the table from each other, laughing at some bawdy joke, until Annie began shaking with coughs again and held the edge of the table in an iron grip.

A third man entered the kitchen through an open doorway which must have led to the rest of the lodging house. His collar and fingers were stained with copious amounts of ink - a printer. Annie greeted him jovially, and motioned for him to join the drinking. He looked straight out the window for a moment, his eyes narrowed, but soon enough snapped his gaze back to the lively members of the room and sat down. The stranger sat perfectly still until the man's head was turned, hardly daring to breathe.

Annie began recounting what must have been her activities to the printer, turning her head aside to cough intermittently until she finally reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a worn cardboard box of pills and took two with her beer. As she was closing the lid on the box, it collapsed on itself, and she turned to the mantelpiece with a curse, taking a torn piece of envelope and folding the remaining pills in it tightly.

She then bid a goodnight to the two men and exited the kitchen. _Damn foolish waste of time if she's gone to bed,_ he thought bitterly to himself before remembering that she had told Tim that she did not have her bed-money. She must only be going out the front.

Groaning as he slid off the crate, he braced himself to keep walking despite his leg and moved on, trying not to let his limp make a sound, each step sending pain throughout his body as he forced himself to lift the leg off the ground instead of letting it drag.

When he reached the front of the building, Annie had turned and was walking the other direction. He made after her resiliently, checking his pocket watch with a fluid motion. The time was one o'clock.

* * *

For the next half an hour, he trailed behind Annie as she restlessly walked the streets, searching for anyone to provide her with bed-money. The stranger was sorely tempted to confront her with four pence, but instead hung back in the shadows. The time was not yet right.

Finally, she gave up and clutched her stomach, no doubt growling incessantly from lack of nourishment other than beer, and she hung her head and wiped her mouth of more blood before turning back in the direction of the lodging house.

The stranger stepped back into the shadows, lowering his head until her footsteps faded enough for him to follow.

Once she reached the lodging house, Annie walked through the front door, and the stranger watched her until he could be sure she was headed for the kitchen again.

He circled round to the back of the house and waited, eyeing her with interest as she began to dive into a cold baked potato on the table. A few moments later, a scruffy man in the uniform of a night watchman entered the kitchen and began to speak with her.

Annie shook her head in reply to his questions, and soon left the kitchen.

The stranger slowly made his way to the front of the house again. She still did not have her bed-money, she was sure to leave again after her food.

Indeed, a few minutes later she opened the front door and stood on the threshold. A voice came from inside, indistinct but most likely from the deputy named Tim. "Never mind, Tim, I'll soon be back. Don't let the bed," Annie replied, and she pulled her coat closer around her shoulders and set off again. The time was a quarter til two in the morning.

* * *

The stranger came to wish during the next few hours that he had waited longer to contemplate his choice. His bones were stiff from the cold, and he hobbled along with the hope that his creaking joints would not give him away in the otherwise silent street. He knew that he should have brought his walking stick, but it was far too hefty and would have slowed him down more than he could afford. And of course, no use in staining the mahogany and ivory with blood. It was impossible to remove from the wood grain, for scrubbing at it only rubbed it in deeper. Its rhythmic clunks would be far too noisy on the cobblestone, anyhow.

For hours, Annie canvassed the streets looking for anyone to give her a few coins, but the only men to be found were on their way to or from work. Watchmen or cart drivers with the early shift had no time for any dallying with a shivering, wheezing whore. He considered stopping her and taking pity, but his choice had been made. It was too late now.

The clock of the Black Eagle Brewery began to strike the half hour as Annie turned onto Hanbury Street. The stranger watched, calculating, as she paused in front of the shutters of number 29. Now was the time to engage his prey. He pulled up his coat collar and made broad strides down the street towards Annie.

"Anything I can do for you, sir?" She asked as he overtook her, his coat billowing in a sudden gust of wind.

The stranger reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. "Will you?" he asked, hoping that the glint in his eye made things quite clear.

A cough nearly overcame her as another gust of wind blew straight into her. It only took her one glance at the contents of the stranger's palm to decide. "Yes," she replied, and took his hand to lead him into the backyard of the house.

He eyed another woman cautiously as she passed by them on the opposite side of the street, and only followed Annie when he was sure the other had gone. The time, as struck by the deep, throaty clock, was half past five.

* * *

Annie opened her palm, and the stranger dropped his coins into it softly, brushing his fingers against her wrist just long enough to detect the thrum of her pulse, thready and weak. He thought back to all of her deep coughing, her dismissal of " _just a spot o' blood,"_ and the pills she had taken in the kitchen of the lodging house. Given her current condition, this woman couldn't be far from death, with or without his interference.

She began hiking up her skirt when a fit of coughing overcame her, alarmingly loud and echoing in the space between the fence and the houses. The stranger looked around wildly, ascertaining that the yard was indeed empty. Her affliction was worse than ever, and at such a time it was bound to alert at least one or two of the neighbors, who would soon be heading for work anyway.

Forcing himself to remain calm and collected, he threw himself forward in front of her and pressed his hands to her throat. It was imperative that he keep her quiet. She could not be heard, he could not be disturbed so soon.

He squeezed the front of her throat until she let out a strangled cry and fell back against the fence, biting her tongue hard as she fell limp against the ground.

The stranger knelt and reached beneath the red and white handkerchief around her neck for a pulse. She was still alive, thank heavens, he had managed to keep her quiet for as much time as he needed. Of course, the sooner he was done the better. He took off his coat and laid it to the side, removing his freshly polished blade from the inside pocket. He ran his fingers across Annie's rounded cheeks. Such a pity she had to be consigned to this fate.

He lightly drew the dull side of his blade against her pale lips, letting her lightly kiss the cool metal, as if in some final act of permission. Then he pushed the handkerchief to the bottom of her neck and severed her arteries as quickly and as calmly as one would tug a bell pull. The stranger felt his blade hit bone, and pushed deeper, notching but not shattering. The knife could only take so much, after all. He smiled as he heard the soft trickle of oozing blood, and moved further down her body to complete the rest of his job. More of an elective, as the exact nature of the murders had been left up to his imagination.

After he had finished, he took back his coins, and, after hesitating, removed the three brass rings from her finger. Her hands were already cold, and as he glanced up, he could see that her lips were turning blue and her face swelling on one side. He stood, staring at the rings in his hand, now smudged with blood, and dropped them in his pocket. He looked down at Annie's prostrate corpse. Something was missing, he could not let this murder remain perfectly identical to his first.

Groaning as his leg seared with pain, he bent back down towards her abdomen and added the final touches.

The stranger looked down at his hands, soaked with blood, and wiped them against the fence, leaving it smeared with blood. He smiled. A lovely confusion for the police, as well. They'd assume she was already bleeding when she fell. As he shifted his thumb, he felt a small puncture and cursed, moving his hand away. A small sliver of wood was lodged in the middle of his thumb. With more than a little annoyance, he pulled it out and discarded it, picking up his coat and shrugging it on. His work here was done. The time was a quarter til six.


	13. Chapter 11

Part Two: The Sleep of Reason

* * *

" _The sleep of reason produces monsters."_

 _Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes_

* * *

Chapter 11

* * *

The knock came at the door at a quarter past six in the morning. I had slept fitfully and lightly the previous night, more haunted by Mary Nichols' corpse than I would care to admit. As soon as I heard the sharp knocking from underneath me, I jumped out of bed, alert, and cracked open my bedroom door to creep towards the top of the stairs. Holmes bounded down the stairs, not noticing that my door was ajar. As he answered the door, I crept along the wall and clung to the top of the railing.

Lestrade stood in the doorway, shoulders hunched wearily, and hat jammed hurriedly on top of his uncombed hair. His jacket was open, and underneath it was plain that his shirt had been unevenly buttoned. "There's been another murder," he explained with a sigh. "Hanbury Street. They want you and the doctor on the scene immediately."

Holmes ran a hand through his hair. "Are the Mets certain it's the same?"

Lestrade closed his eyes tight, holding the edge of the doorframe until his knuckles turned white. "Oh, believe me, we're certain."

Holmes dropped his hand to his side with a curse. "I'll wake Watson." He glanced towards the stairs, eyes inevitably falling on me. "Emily, go back to bed."

"No," I replied, voice strong. "We've discussed this. I cannot stay here if I'm to be excluded."

Sherlock Holmes pursed his lips, eyes hard. "We have no time to quibble, Emily, please."

I shrugged. "No need to quibble." I descended the stairs, stepping into my boots and shrugging on a long overcoat. "See? Wake John, I'm sure nobody wants to wait longer than necessary."

Holmes didn't argue, too tuned into his frosty crime scene demeanour to do much more than sweep past me imperiously and burst into my brother's room without knocking.

"Emily, you're not going to be allowed into the crime scene," Lestrade said with a sigh, looking at me with eyes full of misery.

I peered at my dim figure in the hall mirror. The coat, which had reached my ankles the previous winter, was now a good four inches too short and showed a portion of my nightgown that was far too telling. "Good heavens, thank God it'll take Holmes a long moment to rouse John. I heard him scuffing around his room half the night. I think he may have been drinking again."

"What are you going to do?" Lestrade asked warily.

"Don't worry yourself, I'll be back soon enough." I sprinted up the stairs as silently as I could and snuck through the sitting room and into Holmes' bedchamber. Undoing my coat and throwing off my nightgown, I crossed to Holmes' wardrobe and blindly pulled out a shirt and trousers.

The trousers I pulled up as far as I could and tucked the extra leg into my boots, threading a belt around my waist to make sure my disguise stayed. I buttoned up the shirt and rolled the sleeves so that my hands would not be indisposed, and donned my coat once again, topping the outfit off by stuffing my hair under a double-peaked cap that was hanging on the bedpost. Especially in the darkness, I should easily pass for a member of the consulting team.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows when I returned, but said nothing. I was relieved that no one was at present arguing against my case any further, for it was early, and the prospective corpse was stealing the little patience I had left.

A few moments later, Holmes returned with my brother in tow, fully dressed if a little haphazardly. John gave me a pained yet resigned glare as he shrugged on his coat and scarf with a comb between his teeth.

Holmes eyed my outfit ransacked from his closet with great interest. "Your face is too clean," he grunted at last, taking a pen from his pocket and rapidly approaching me, holding the pen in front of my face as though it were a dagger.

"What do you think you're doing to my face?" I asked, slightly appalled.

"A five o'clock shadow. Don't open your mouth, you'll smudge it."

I sealed my lips with a sigh through my nose and allowed the detective to dot my cheeks and chin with ink.

"We should go, Holmes," Lestrade warned, checking his pocket-watch and clicking it closed with a flourish.

"The woman is dead, Lestrade," John replied, looking as though leaving the house were the last thing he wanted to do.

Holmes turned his gaze to my brother with some irritation. "Yes, but the Inspector's superiors are not, and each second we waste means more contamination of the sacred scene. We have already dallied enough." He strode imperiously to the front of our company and pushed the door open.

With my heart in my throat, I turned to join John and Lestrade, following the signal of coattails billowing in the chill wind.

* * *

"Watson, do be prepared for your medical expertise to be tested. It came to my attention last night that Mr. Phillips would be quite indisposed today," Holmes said nonchalantly as the cab began to slow in front of a house on Hanbury Street that would have been completely inconspicuous were it not for the dozen or so people gathered around the front door and side gate.

"How on earth would you presume to know that?" Lestrade asked, but his inquiry was not dignified with an answer as Holmes swept out of the cab and pushed his way to the gate before the three of us had the chance to descend.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and took the lead as he beelined for Holmes, who had been blocked at the gate by a constable and was gesturing wildly at his own face in the hopes that the officer would recognize him. "These three are with me, Constable," he said dryly, showing his badge and gesturing the young man aside.

"The consultants?" the young officer asked with surprise, backing up until he bumped into a pail sitting against the chipped brick wall of the neighboring building.

"Yes, Duncan. These are all who have been cleared. Do not step aside for anyone else outside of uniform, and look out for any shifty sorts. The killer may come back."

"You didn't chance to see Phillips out there, did you?" Inspector Abberline asked gruffly, approaching Lestrade and clapping a hand on his arm.

"...You mean he's not here, Fred?" Lestrade slumped his shoulders, throwing a quick glance at Holmes, who was smirking.

"If he is, he's doing a right good job not telling us," Abberline returned, his cool eyes filling with a slight panic.

My brother looked to the heavens, drawing a deep breath and pushing up his sleeves. "I'm willing and able to assist however I can, there's no use waiting for a surgeon who likely spent his night with women and beverages of irreputable character. Where's the body?"

"This way." Abberline beckoned us to follow him to the back of the yard, where a small cloud of officers were gathered near the fence, their jaws set as they scribbled down notes and peered for obvious traces of the killer in the dim light.

"Away from the body, you fools, we must not damage anything more than has already been done," Holmes snapped, waving the disgruntled officers out of his way.

Abberline led one of the men with a notebook aside. "Mark Phillips down as present," he muttered, "we can't have anymore gossip on his account." His eyes flickered towards me as he spoke, aware that I was watching them covertly and shooting me a glare of contempt. I had no doubt that he recognized me from the last week's meeting in Baker Street, and my breath caught in my throat even though something in the brief eye contact we shared told me that he wasn't going to say anything.

Regaining my outward steadiness, I looked away and my eyes fell on the body, and any control I had over my limbs was lost.

The woman was laying on her back with her head towards the fence. Her head lolled to the side and her left arm was across her chest, her right splayed off to the side at an angle. All eyes, though, were inevitably drawn to the unabashedly suggestive position of her legs. I inadvertently took a step forwards, and immediately regretted it. The front of her clothes were torn to rags and soaked in blood. Beneath the shreds of fabric, her lower abdomen had been cleanly sliced open, giving the world a plain view of her inner organs.

But her stomach cavity looked almost...empty, and as I moved my gaze according to John's sudden whispers of mercy from God, I saw why. Her intestines, large and small, all twenty-eight feet of them, had been cut out and placed in a pile above her right shoulder. On the opposite side, a deep and sticky puddle of blood lay with another cut of flesh in it.

John knelt down near the right shoulder and gently prodded the dead woman's face. He lifted her lip, revealing teeth smeared with bright blood and a tongue bitten almost in half, a result of what I could only describe as some kind of spasm. I recalled almost the same thing happening to Nicole's brother when she had written us to investigate his disappearance the previous fall.

My brother drew in a subtle breath as he lifted one of the victim's eyelids, and some quality vanished from his gaze. His eyes became harder, more determined, and the movements of his hands more deliberate. He tilted her chin back, exposing the depth of the wound that had undoubtedly killed her. "Open my bag, will you?" he muttered, gesturing to the black Gladstone bag beside him, and I had to look around a moment before realizing that he was talking to me. I nodded and stepped over the body to unclasp it.

"You there! By the doctor!" I heard Holmes' voice call, and I again did not register that he was addressing me, careful as he was not to use my name.

I pulled John's bag as far open as I could and stood to make my way over to Holmes. "Don't linger by the body too long," he told me. "Gradual exposure is the key. Normally this is far from the type of case I'd have you start out with, but...the orchestra does not pick their own tune. They simply learn to play along. Come, help me search the yard here. An extra pair of eyes is always welcome, especially in the dim light."

"Holmes," I hissed, peering around surreptitiously, "there's officers all over this yard."

He raised his eyebrows at me. "Are you trying to talk me out of involving you? Come now, don't be contradictory."

I sighed. "Of course not."

"Good. Besides, they're no good, those bumbling children have no idea what to look for. You take the right side of the body, I'll take left. Then we'll switch. And remember to stay in character at all costs."

I nodded at Holmes and took the lantern he handed me, shining the dim glow on the ground and squinting to make out relevant objects from the caked grime that already covered nearly everything in sight. After a few moments of slowly canvassing my assigned area, my eyes alighted on a paper envelope yellowed with age and smeared with a rusty color. As I bent to get a closer look, I saw something else nearly hidden against the bottom of the fence. It reflected the light from the lantern, catching my eye with its glint. "Mr. Holmes!" I shouted in a deeper voice, barely remembering that I was not supposed to know the detective intimately.

Holmes straightened up like a hound on the scent, scuffing the ground vigorously with his shoe to mark where he'd left off before he loped across the yard to my side. "Halloa, what have we here?" he muttered, kneeling by my side and sweeping the hem of his coat out of the way.

"There's an envelope," I told him normally in hushed tones. "See there I think that's blood on it."

Holmes picked it up between two fingers as though he were a pair of human tweezers. He picked at the smears a little with his fingernail, sniffed them, and finally held the envelope directly against the light of the lantern. "By Jove it is, and reasonably fresh, too."

"The killer's?" I asked, shifting my posture before my knees went out from under me.

Wordlessly, Holmes turned the envelope over and opened it, peering inside. "No, my dear Emily, it's the victim's." He cupped it open and held it towards me.

Inside were a small piece of rough-looking fabric, likely muslin, and two small combs. The makeshift envelope they were in was thoroughly unmarked apart from the smears on front.

"Has her body been searched? Why wasn't this on it?" I whispered.

"Watson's searching it now, he wants no one else near the body as of yet. I'll have a closer look after we finish searching the yard. The killer must have gone through her pockets and discarded this. But see here?" He flipped it over again, pointing at the blood stains on the front. "This is far more than just a smear. Look closely."

I leaned in, peering closer at the shape and pattern of the smear. "It's a thumbprint."

Holmes clapped me on the shoulder excitedly. "Precisely! We have a partial imprint of our killer's right thumb!" Before I could even open my mouth, he tore off the half of the envelope with the print and shoved it in his pocket.

My eyes widened as I watched the great and cautious detective destroy a piece of evidence before my eyes. "Holmes, what -"

"Silence. The police are going to want this envelope, and I cannot give them perhaps the most telling clue in this case. What is it? You look as though that's not all you've found."

I pointed further into the shadows, where the glint was still visible if your head was turned an imperceptible amount to the left.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, unable to keep his voice down, and picked up the scalpel delicately. Sullen footsteps behind us proclaimed the arrival of Inspector Abberline, no doubt alerted by Holmes' triumphant shout.

"Here now, what have you got there?" He asked in his soft but authoritative voice. I was struck by the fact that he never asked questions as such, so firm was his countenance.

Holmes stood up and turned to meet the Inspector, holding the ripped envelope and scalpel in his hands, and I followed suit.

"It's an envelope, sir," I explained, my voice neutral in pitch, as I was unsure whether or not he truly recognized me for who I was. "There's a scrap of muslin and two pocket combs inside. It's the victim's, but the killer must have left it behind. We also found a small surgical knife, likely at least one of the weapons involved here."

Abberline stuck out his hand sternly. "I'll take those, Mr. Holmes, I'm in charge of inventory. I'll make sure they're entered and logged along with all the rest."

"With all due respect, Inspector, but your chemists are rudimentary at best. These items could hold vital scientific evidence that points to the capture of this killer. Log them as you wish, but they would be much safer with me." Though I could not see his face, Holmes' voice was growing harder by the second.

Abberline took a step closer to Holmes, his mustache bristling. " _With no due respect,_ Mr. Holmes, but I did not ask for you to meddle in my investigation. If you stick your extensive proboscis out of line one more time, I will not hesitate to state the case for your consulting privileges to be revoked. Hand over my evidence."

Practically seething, Holmes dropped the objects into Abberline's hand with enough force that I could hear the smack.

The formidable Inspector locked eyes with the towering detective as he tucked the items into his pocket and withdrew two small tablets, which he tossed into his mouth and swallowed dry. "Pain pills," he said coldly as he turned and began to limp away. "I've got a bad leg, you know."

"I've seen him twice now," I said in a musing tone, turning to Holmes. "Really comes off as a cheerful sort, doesn't he?"

"As a matter of fact, that's what they all seem to say about Inspector Abberline. He's amiable enough when the fancy strikes him, his only downside is a thirst for success."

I snorted softly, bringing a hand to my mouth and turning the gesture into a cough.

"What?" Holmes narrowed his eyes, looking down upon the shadow of my face.

"Doesn't that description remind you of anyone?"

"I'm not thirsty for success! Not for the same reasons anyway. I search for the truth because it does good, it brings order. That's all I look for. I don't want my name in the papers or any such nonsense." He wrinkled his nose and waved a hand dismissively. "There's a reason I was initially so adverse of Watson's decision to publish selections of our adventures. Abberline? He just wants the publicity, the attention. And God help you if you're the poor fool to stand in his way…"

I raised my eyebrows, surprised at this sudden flow of personal opinion from Holmes. "Well," I replied after a moment, "shall I assist you in searching the left side of the yard up to the gate?"

Holmes rubbed his chin for a moment thoughtfully. Then he held up a finger as an idea struck him. "Actually, let this be a test of your skills. Have a look over what Watson has removed from the dead woman's pockets. Let us see what you can infer."

I nodded, mentally preparing myself for another go at the taxing sight and striding back towards the body as Holmes went off to resume his own search. John was busy dictating his notes on the body to another officer standing by, giving his professional estimates as to the length of the blade in question and the condition of the objects removed from the body.

"Would you say the placement of the, er, organs is indicative of any sort of ritual, Doctor Watson?" the constable was asking him, his accent thick and southern.

"Ritual?" asked my brother incredulously. "Now just a moment, what sort of question is that?"

"Just preliminary, Doctor. It is all rather deliberate, wouldn't you say?"

"Perhaps it's nothing more than a distraction," I cut in with my deeper voice, sneaking another look at the gore above the woman's shoulders and drawing in a deep hiss. "I'd say he only wants us to think there's a meaning. Throws us off the track, it does."

John threw a glare in my direction for opening my mouth, but the officer veritably bounced and gestured towards me with his pencil. "Excellent! Best stuff I've heard all day. May I quote you on that, should it arise at the inquest?"

"I…"

"Sorry, didn't catch that?"

"Smith," I blurted without thinking, shaking my head. "William Smith."

"Truly brilliant," the constable reiterated exuberantly, turning back to my brother. "Continue, if you will. This is the official record."

 _William Smith? Really, Emily?_ I chastised myself silently as I knelt down to examine the personal belongings removed from the body. What was I thinking? And to go on the official record? The one read at the inquest? What would happen once the rest of the Mets realized no one by the name of William Smith was present at the crime scene?

The victim's possessions, as it turned out, consisted of only one thing apart from her clothes and the envelope we had found to the right of the corpse and handed over to Abberline. It was another envelope, a torn fragment of one, folded over tightly to make a sort of packet. I opened the top lip and found two small pills inside. They were white, and a bit of the powdery coating came off on my hands as I fingered them. I returned them to the pouch and examined the paper for any signs of markings. On the back, where it had been folded over several times, was a small blue stamp which read 'Sussex Regiment." I narrowed my eyes and turned it over. On the other side was scrawled the letter M right before the edge. There were two postmarks in the corner, one of which read 'London, Aug. 3, 1888.' This was in red ink. The other postmark, directly beside it, was black and smudged beyond legibility. Further down, the letters 'Sp' had been written before the cutoff. The paper was thick, various improper bends had been made in an attempt to crease it, and where it had been torn, it was not clean, and exposed a layer of the stiff fibres underneath.

I vaguely heard Holmes arguing with Lestrade about an apron and a sliver of wood, Holmes' voice carrying on the chill morning air.

"Out of the way, sir," a voice behind me said gruffly, and I staggered upright. The wagon and stretcher had arrived to take the body to the local mortuary.

"Shall I come to the mortuary to further examine the body this afternoon?" John was asking the wagon attendant.

"No, sir, I've been informed that Doctor Phillips will be able-bodied to take control at that juncture."

"John," I said, approaching my brother as he wiped off his hands and closed up his bag.

He grunted for me to continue.

"Where did you find this torn envelope? Was it in her pockets?" I asked, holding it out in front of him.

He squinted at it a moment before replying. "Near her head, just below the mess at her right shoulder. Her pockets were empty."

Something was nagging at me, and I turned and strode across the yard towards Holmes, tapping the corner of the packet on my other hand absentmindedly.

"Ah, I was just coming to fetch you!" Holmes exclaimed, his eyes lighting up as I approached. "I've found a splinter, and however miniscule, I have determined that it has blood on it! Our killer's!"

"Nonsense, Holmes, it's rubbish!" Protested Lestrade. "Someone got a splinter from the fence and pulled it out."

"Our killer!"

"Or anyone passing through this yard! Good God, man, it could have even been the victim! We have more important evidence at hand! This apron, for example!" He held up a brown-stained leather apron that he was holding by the halter strap.

"Lestrade, that isn't evidence any more than you are! It was obviously thrown out by the residents of number 29, or more likely some local butcher or fishmonger!"

"Look, Holmes," I began, somewhat baffled by the argument. "The only thing John found of the victim's besides what we recovered is this envelope, and it wasn't even in her pockets. It was beside her right shoulder." I handed him the envelope.

He peered inside. "Fascinating. I will have to examine those tablets further back at Baker Street." He shook the packet in Lestrade's direction. "Lestrade, tell _no one_ about this. I can't let that egotistical arse let it collect dust in a box of ignored evidence that could have solved the case." He turned back to me. "Emily, what is it? Something's troubling you."

"This envelope…" I began, shaking my head. "It's been torn so not much of the address can be made out. But down here, see, where the district should go. It says 'Sp' and then gets cut off."

"Spitalfields?" Lestrade offered, leaning in to look as I was showing Holmes.

"That's what I guessed too," I replied. "It's the only thing that makes sense. But the paper is too expensive. See here, it's thick. About a month old, too, according to the first postmark. No one in Spitalfields would be buying paper like that, especially for an envelope. I don't know what it is, Holmes, but something isn't right. Something's -"

Holmes set his jaw. "I couldn't agree with you more, Emily. But look, they're taking the body away. All's said and done here, and you're looking the worse for wear. Your stubble's rubbing off, too. Let's get back to Baker Street, we'll discuss the matter more over breakfast."

It wasn't until Holmes pointed it out that I realized how weak I was feeling, not just in my head but my stomach and legs. Everything was aching, and the morning felt far chillier than it had been when we arrived. Once the three of us had climbed into a cab back to Baker Street, I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes, and was vaguely aware of my head falling onto my brother's shoulder a few moments later.


	14. Chapter 12

_A/N: This is the last complete chapter at present. I will update as written. Please remember to leave your advice/thoughts in a review! Enjoy, and keep your eyes out for clues... - Ell_

* * *

Chapter 12

* * *

A journal hit me in the face. I started, my eyes flying open. "What in the-"

"Ah, you're awake!" Holmes sounded drained behind his facade of joviality, something I had expected to see from him in the near future, but which nevertheless shocked me to see showing through so plainly. His waxen mask was cracked and wearing thin, for I doubted that he had slept in a week, and his dependence on cocaine during these periods of overactivity was not helping his constitution.

"I am now," I replied dryly, tossing the worn and dogeared journal onto the end table and peering around the sitting room as Holmes tossed papers and envelopes around violently. "Why was I not in bed?"

"When we returned, Watson brought you in and onto the sofa because he wanted me to _stay near you_ or something to that effect. I can't say I recall his exact words."

I pushed back a blanket that had been draped over me and sat up, only then realizing that I was still wearing Holmes' gigantic clothes from the crime scene. The cap had been taken off and my hair spilled around my shoulders, somewhat tangled from being under the hat and then subjected to sleep.

Suddenly I was struck by an overwhelming sense of embarrassment that I had let myself lose hold of the waking world so easily before even being home, and I felt a dark cloud envelop me.

"Don't feel ashamed of falling asleep," Holmes chastised me lightly, sparing me a glance as he crossed the room to his chemical table. "You were stressed and overtaxed. It is highly understandable."

His words struck me as amusing, considering his refusal to let himself surrender to sleep. I brushed it off and stood. "I'm going to wash and change," I told him briskly. "I find it discomfiting that I slept with crime scene on my clothes."

In my bedroom, I dressed and scrubbed the remaining ink and dust from my face. My washbasin on the dressing table was still mostly full from the previous day, and the midday light shining through the window cast a glassy surface onto the water. I stared at my rippling reflection in thoughtful sorrow. My nose was long, my cheekbones high but round. My golden brown hair framed my heart shaped face with subtle waves, and my eyes were the darkest shade of forest green, with flecks that matched my hair. This critical examination of my physical attributes was an almost daily routine. I was conventionally attractive, even stunning, if you were Andrew, but that didn't mean I was fully satisfied.

But though my own appearance briefly passed through my mind, it was not the train of thought that stopped me dead still as I stared into my own eyes. The victim this morning. Holmes had dragged me away from John's side before I had a chance to fully consider what was before me, but I had managed to look past the gore of her neck and notice the other marks. Red and recent, they certainly would have bruised if the poor unfortunate had lived long enough. They were the marks of fingers that had grabbed her throat and squeezed violently - before the knife was taken to her person. Did those hands kill her directly? Was the knife the proverbial icing on the cake? As much as I tried to blink the image away, I could not help but imagine her eyes, wild with fear as a stranger choked the life out of her. They would bulge out and glass over as he dropped her to the ground and reached for his blade, leaving his blazing handprint on her corpse - _in flagrante delicto._

He would be caught red-handed. He had to be. I knew, Holmes knew, John knew, and I hoped the police knew that more would die if we did not find him. Maybe the higher ups didn't care politically about the lives of the women they were shunning and starving in the first place, but most of the officers had enough common decency to recognize that lives were lives. How anyone dared to call themselves a policeman despite not caring enough to stop a monster who stole the light from a human's eyes was beyond me.

* * *

An hour later, I perched on the edge of Holmes' armchair watching in fascination as he added measured drops of cobalt blue solution to a beaker of water he had mixed with some excess powder from the tablets I had discovered at the crime scene. He mixed the contents of the beaker with the end of a rounded stick, exactly six turns counterclockwise, as though it were a witch's brew that must be mixed by careful instructions. A moment later, the liquid turned an alarmingly bright shade of amber.

"Halloa!" Holmes exclaimed, and I leaned forward in interest.

"What does that mean?"

"A rather peculiarly high level of calcium in the coating. Curious, isn't it?"

I was unsure just how curious it was, so I merely nodded as Holmes turned back to me to share the glint in his eye. "Do you know yet what the pills are?"

"I may be well versed in the art of chemistry, but I am not a man of medicine. I had Watson examine them before I first began my own analysis, hours ago. They are a cheaply constructed mixture of calcium, iron, and magnesium, with a distinct tincture of morphine to dull pain."

"They're analgesics?" I questioned, using a term for pain medications that I had read in one of John's medical glossaries.

"Yes," Holmes replied with a nod, "but more than that. Such a mixture is used by lower class urban doctors in the absence of fresh milk and clear sunlight to treat - or, rather, briefly ease the pains of - infections of the lungs such as pneumonia or consumption."

"Was she ill?" I asked, and Holmes looked slightly peeved by all my inquiries as he took the golden solution and set it over a low flame.

"I am sure that an autopsy will reveal more, but given her societal status and occupation, it is more than likely."

My brother returned a moment later. He slammed the sitting room door closed behind him and plodded to the dining table with solemn irritation.

I turned and watched him as he poured himself a cup of coffee and added a rather copious amount of brandy to it. He slumped into a chair and took a long, bracing drink, staring almost mournfully at a small package he had returned with.

After a moment, his gaze strayed to a gathering of documents and old newspaper clippings Holmes had scattered across the opposite end of the table, and his eyes turned dark. A series of bitter expletives came muttered from his lips.

I cocked my head at my brother. "What is it, John?"

"Nothing, Emily, just the damned headlines in the _Times._ "

I fixed him with a wary gaze. Today's copy of the periodical was on the other side of the table, unfolded but falling into Holmes' dinner chair, the front page headlines well out of view.

"Holmes."

The detective did not react. He was mixing a separate solution with great care.

John tried again, sitting up straighter and squaring his shoulders. " _Holmes._ "

Holmes funneled his new solution into a series of tubes that connected ultimately to the first.

"Holmes!" John barked harshly, raising his voice in irritation.

The overeager chemist turned away from his work exasperatedly. " _Yes,_ Watson."

My brother leaned forward and swept the assorted papers away, revealing a plain wooden box with a sliding top that was halfway open, Holmes' syringe and bottle plainly visible. "You left something out."

Holmes posture changed, and he drew himself up almost protectively. "Ah."

"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" John's voice was steely, and he stood, balling his hand into a fist on the tabletop.

"There's a case, Watson, I think we can agree that I needed to increase my work hours in this instance."

" _This instance._ " John let out an angry laugh. "Is that what you think it's for? This instance?" He suddenly turned to me. "Emily. Go. I must discuss this matter with my flatmate."

"No," I blurted. "I stay. He's _our_ flatmate, not just yours anymore."

"This and similar instances," Holmes admitted, drumming his fingers restlessly on his experiment table.

John let out an exclamation of disgust, and turned away to compose himself briefly.

Holmes turned to me during the recess. "I do think it wise that you adjourn during this conversation," he told me quietly. "It appears he did not know."

I swallowed and stood to leave, averting my gaze. Indeed, it appeared that John had not known or guessed what Holmes had been doing to himself in order to solve this case.

Almost as soon as I closed the door behind me, I heard hushed voices, and I barely had time to reach the landing before one of them raised, and I heard the sound of John's fist impacting the table.

I didn't descend the stairs or make to head for my room. Instead, I stood at the end of the hall, tucked in the shadow of the grandfather clock. The echo of each second passing right next to my ear did nothing to prevent me from overhearing exactly what was transpiring in the sitting room.

"Being so incredibly egotistical, I have heard you mention on many an occasion how fantastic your cranial capacity and how much of a gift it is to the world! Consider all that you are putting at risk, Holmes!"

"Pooh pooh, Watson," Holmes returned calmly. "As I have already assured you, I do not take this course of action every case. Only in matters that demand my utmost attention."

"Like this one."

"Precisely! You see my point, Watson!"

"Far from it, your _astounding_ leaps of logic have never baffled me more." John's voice was a bursting honeycomb of sarcasm.

"Watson, you are aware of how deep this case runs. The political corruption is unlike anything Great Britain has seen since Cromwell. They've taken the truth from a straightforward case and stolen it away. We've got to be at the top of our game! I'd suggest you indulge if I didn't fear the reaction it would have with your own recent alcoholism."

"Do not turn the conversation on me. What in God's name are you doing to yourself? Have you slept since the last of August?"

"Not a whit."

John sighed out a curse. "You dare to talk about being at the top of your game? Any other man this sleep deprived would have been committed by now. Have the hallucinations set in?"

"After the first three days, as I projected."

"Look at yourself. I'm halfway across the room and know the damage. You're fevered, restless, tense. You've an elevated heart rate and you cannot focus your eyes more than ten seconds. You aren't helping this case, Holmes, you're working yourself to death! And I'll be damned if I sit here and let you throw your talents away."

A seething silence flooded the air like a fired plumber's rocket.

"I will give my brain respite once this dosage wears off," Holmes conceded finally. "But I will not sleep without a compromise. You will allow me to stimulate myself whenever an urgent situation arises. But I will allow myself rest once a day."

Sensing that the heat of the argument had come to an end, I retreated to my bedchamber and waited a safe amount of time before facing the tension of the sitting room again.

* * *

More than an hour later, a knock at my bedroom door disrupted my whimsical fantasies. I flipped my journal closed and called, "Come in!" My voice was still slightly slurred from the catatonic state of daydreaming, and I wiggled my tongue and shook my head before the door opened.

"I greatly apologize," came a voice I had not been expecting, one I'd only heard inside my head a few moments before, "I know I shouldn't be in here." I didn't have time to stand and embrace Andrew before he was across the room with his hands on my shoulders. "But Mrs. Hudson told me the sitting room was occupied. Does Holmes have a client? You know, it's very good for him to continue on with official clients in the midst of all this."

My unwittingly tense shoulders relaxed under his gentle and altogether improper touch. "Andrew, is there any chance your father will take me in? Nicole's gone and the tensions between Holmes and my brother are straining the bonds of safety."

Andrew let out a breath and let go of my shoulders, and I heard a soft creak as he sat down on the corner of my bed.

I turned around in my seat, taking in Andrew's chin length, wavy hair that he stuffed under his hat every day in order to meet police regulations. He was still wearing his uniform, hat carelessly tossed aside onto my bed as soon as he'd entered the room.

He sighed, flicking some dust off of his disheveled lapel. "The doctor found out about Holmes' addiction, didn't he?"

"Yes, he - hang on! How the hell did you know?"

"I'm not an idiot, Emily," he assured me with a sad smile, and some undertone of bitterness that he was trying to erase. "A person has a certain crease around their eyes when they're awake past their body's natural resting time, no matter how dedicated to their work they are. Holmes didn't have it the other night when we helped with the boxes of records. You and Doctor Watson did."

I studied Andrew's face carefully. "That's not all," I said softly, shaking my head.

His eyes crinkled and he met my gaze, face flushing ever so slightly. "Pardon?"

I leaned forward. "That's not how you know, not really. You're holding something back."

His head dipped down, and he fiddled with the buttons on his coat. "Why do I try?" he asked with an exhale that could have almost been a laugh. "You can't hide anything from Holmes, and you're barely two steps behind him."

I narrowed my eyes and reached out a hand to brush the tips of his fingers gently. "Andrew?"

Andrew took a deep breath and balled up his fist a moment before consciously relaxing it and taking my hand. "My mother's been ill ever since I was born. The pregnancy and birth were terribly challenging for her, and she's been bedridden ever since. She goes through periods of extreme pain and suffering, and the doctors gave her opiates to ease her discomfort. She gradually came to depend on them, and giving her all she asks for is as much as anyone can do. Without it, her pains worsen again - and that's before the symptoms of withdrawal. My father couldn't bear to force her back into agony, but he can't stand to see her like this either."

Sympathy and grief overcame my heart, and I squeezed Andrew's hand tighter as he looked away, struggling for words. "Whenever you're ready."

After several moments, he looked back, hardly daring to meet my eyes. "It's not his passion for work that drives him for such long hours, he can't bring himself to truly live at home anymore. He pays the doctors and nurses who attend and feed her, but he hardly ever sets foot in the house. He even sleeps in his office most of the time."

"But you're not at the house alone, right? You have an older brother?"

Andrew shook his head. "Benjamin? He got a rush of adventure several years ago and went to Rhodesia. It's only the dark house and I. Hasn't it occurred to you that I'm always drifting around somewhere? Before the Mets employed me I clung on as my father's obnoxious little protege, so to speak. Now when I'm off duty, I'm always either at the station or with you. I'll avoid my family's solemn ghosts as often as I can."

Not letting go of his hand, I moved to take a seat beside him at the foot of my bed, folding my legs and skirts above the trunk that sat at the end of the mattress. "I suppose we're finally on even ground."

He looked over at me, eyes narrowed. "What?"

"The day I met you," I explained. "I'd only met you an hour before, and I sobbed out the details of my family crisis and Moriarty while you patted my back like the out of sorts gentleman you were. Now we've both spilled out our familial problems to each other unexpectedly."

Andrew's brow furrowed, and suddenly he laughed. "Of course I remember that day! I snatched Moriarty's letter from your hand and you started sobbing. I didn't know what to do."

"I know you didn't! I felt awful. And besides, there was no reason I should have broken down and told you at all. I thought for certain that Holmes was going to kill me when he found out. It's no wonder I got kidnapped, I was a horrible investigator, trusting arresting lads without reservation."

Andrew pulled me closer to him and murmured, "You certainly can't say the same now."

Just like that, our lips met, just as electrifying as it had been before. One of his hands held firm on the small of my back, and the other cupped the back of my neck, and goosebumps arose all over my body.

A moment later, he broke away abruptly at the sight of someone in the doorway. I turned to see John leaning his good shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed stiffly.

"Andrew, are you here for any reason _other_ than to woo my half-sister?"

Andrew stood formally. "I am, Doctor, and I should not have forgotten so easily. Is Holmes available? I have important news."

John's moustache twitched. "I'm afraid he's rather indisposed at the moment."

I groaned. " _Please_ tell me you didn't murder him."

He shot me an irritated look. "I didn't murder him! He's asleep. Anything you have to say, Andrew, I will pass it along later."

"The body from Hanbury Street has been identified."


	15. Chapter 13

_A/N: Yes, I know how long it's been since this story was updated. In my defense, this chapter (and the next one) have been done for a while, but the laptop I got for Christmas doesn't copy and paste into the Doc Manager well, and I actually had to paste it from my phone and then edit from my laptop. Technology may be a writer's second greatest road block. Well, without further ado, have a new chapter! (And please don't read this without reading the previous chapters/stories just because I updated it and also please leave a review) - Ell_

* * *

Ten minutes later, John stood beside his chair at the dining table, arms crossed and tapping his foot impatiently, as a rumpled Holmes entered.

"Andrew!" Holmes rushed over to clap Andrew on the shoulder heartily. "I have been told you have news for us!"

Andrew narrowed his eyes and reluctantly patted Holmes' arm in a returned greeting.

I raised my eyebrows. I had hardly ever seen Holmes so...buoyant. Even when he had been fresh under the influence of drugs, for goodness' sake, even when he _wasn_ ' _t_ , there was some underlying tendency to brood under his joviality. I turned to my brother. "How long was he asleep?"

"An hour," responded John dryly.

"The most rejuvenating hour of all my days!" Holmes added brightly, leaping into his chair and gesturing with a flourish for us to take a seat as well. "So, my _dear_ colleagues, what of this news?"

Andrew cleared his throat. "The Hanbury Street corpse was identified this morning as one Annie Chapman."

"This morning!" exclaimed Holmes incredulously. "What time?"

"Half past eleven."

"By Jove, Andrew, why did you not come here immediately?"

I watched him inhale deeply, holding it for a moment in his cheeks before letting it out. "I would have, but the entire Metropolitan force has been at boiling point today. Phillips' job is on the line after he was absent this morning, and Assistant Commissioner Anderson took sick leave and left for Switzerland after hearing the news."

"Sick leave? In Switzerland?" I asked. "He was just appointed a week ago!"

Holmes shook his head. "He's too much of a coward to face the public eye on his department." He then waved his hand dismissively. "Pooh pooh. Who identified the body?"

Andrew pulled a scrap of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket, squinting to read the writing on it before he began to read. "A friend of Chapman's by the name of Amelia Palmer. She told us she saw Chapman multiple times a week, including this last. She said that the deceased had approached her multiple times saying she felt unwell."

"Of course she was ill," Holmes mused with a nod, two fingers against his lips. He turned to my brother. "Watson, do diagnose Ms. Chapman for us."

John had not said a word since we'd been sitting. In fact, he had not sat down, and was still standing by his chair with his arms crossed defensively. He snorted unceremoniously. "Holmes, you cannot possibly expect me to diagnose a dead woman whom I have only examined briefly without documentation of her recent symptoms and medical past. For God's sake, if I didn't know better than to diagnose someone based solely on occupation, I'd say she had syphilis."

"Consider the pills, Watson!" Holmes drummed his fingers on the tabletop, so rapidly that they appeared to be a blur.

"The analgesics we found at the crime scene?"

"Yes, good man!"

John shook his head. "I hazarded that they were being used to treat a pulmonary infection, but broadly speaking, Holmes, a hard pressed workhouse physician could give out such pills for any common illness under the sun!"

"Holmes, does her illness really mean much in terms of the investigation?" I asked, furrowing my brow.

"We cannot know what facts will lead us to the solution, Emily, our best course of action is to turn over every stone, read every book in the library, if you will. We must inquire about everything!"

"It won't be our place for much longer, Holmes." John bent and rifled through a stack of old newspapers that covered half of the back of the sofa. He stood when he found what he was looking for. "An issue of _The_ _Star_ from four days ago, speaks of a local suspect going by the name of 'Leather Apron.'"

Holmes guffawed. "Watson, we have by far seen testament that our man is most certainly _not_ a local."

Andrew put his head in his hands. "Not only that, but we cannot afford to put our hopes in _The_ _Star_. It's a penny dreadful of a periodical. The Yard keeps old issues of it in the toilet."

John shook his head at our negations. "It says he hadn't been seen in the area for some days! Perhaps he doesn't live there, only frequents the area while prowling for victims. Every lie is rooted in some truth!"

"Watson, I promise you that this ' _Leather_ _Apron_ ' is not responsible for these murders," Holmes said wearily.

I held up a finger. "But weren't you and Lestrade arguing this morning about a leather apron at the crime scene? Perhaps it belonged to the killer."

Holmes made an indignant noise reminiscent of a trodden on dog. "If you'll recall, that's exactly what Lestrade thought! It was an utter piece of rubbish! It was clearly so covered with filth it had been there at least a week!"

"The killer could have rubbed the apron in muck to try and discount it as evidence," I offered.

"Preposterous, nobody committing such a delicate murder out of doors has time to cover his tracks on his way out."

"And yet that's exactly what he's done," I shot back. "We have nothing, Holmes. Nothing that can prove a damn thing."

"We _have_ evidence, Emily," Holmes returned irritably, a dangerous edge in his voice. "It's just…"

"Contaminated," John finished softly after Holmes trailed off. My brother stiffly threw down the copy of _The_ _Star_ and finally slid into his seat, shoulders slumped.

"What exactly do we have?" Andrew asked, straightening his back professionally and folding his hands on the table.

Holmes sprang up with the energy of a child and ran to his desk, returning with the torn envelope containing the pills we'd found at the crime scene, the scrap of envelope with the thumbprint he'd secreted away, and a stoppered glass vial containing what I could only assume was the sliver of wood about which he'd fought with Lestrade.

"We shall begin with this." Holmes slapped the thumbprint into the center of the table. He smirked triumphantly as Andrew and John bent over to peer at the specimen in curiosity. "Emily was astute enough to uncover an envelope in the area of the yard to the right of the body. It had belonged, naturally, to our victim, this _Annie_ _Chapman_. I had the foresight to snag a smear of blood on the front that turned out to be much more, before dear old Inspector Abberline came by to confiscate and entirely ignore it. Emily also found what is almost definitely our murder weapon, a shiny scalpel with blood all the way up the handle, but it too was snatched away by the talons of law enforcement." Holmes' eyes grew dark and the corners of his mouth twitched in anger.

"But whose thumbprint is that?" John peered closer.

"None but the murderer's, of course!" Holmes responded with jubilance.

Andrew ran a hand across his mouth thoughtfully. "So we have a thumbprint cast in blood. What on earth does this mean for us in terms of the investigation?"

Holmes eyes lit up with a spark that could only mean he was about to assume the role of teacher and give us a very important lesson. "In many ancient societies, such as Babylon, Greece, Egypt, and Rome, fingerprints were cast into the clay of walls and pottery as a method of identifying the mason or potter. In the second century Before Christ, Babylonians and Chinese were using inked fingerprints to sign legal documents. A few decades later, a Babylonian king took the fingerprints of those arrested by his guards! Much later on, in the 13th century _anno_ _domini_ , there was a Persian physician who contended that no two people have alike fingers! This is, of course, only a brief history of the topic. I've written a monograph, if you'd care at all to-"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed in a silent prayer for patience. "Later, Holmes. Do come to the point."

"These people, in ancient up through medieval times, seem to have been acutely aware of this science that we are just now relearning! Just two years ago - I am sure you will recall, Andrew and Watson - that a doctor by the name of Henry Faulds came to Scotland Yard with a most excellent suggestion. He believed that since no two people's fingerprints were alike, that you could identify a criminal by taking his fingerprint with ink and comparing the patterns to a print taken from a crime scene. The Mets dismissed it as tomfoolery."

"Yes, Holmes, because the amount of time involved in somehow finding a visible print from the scene, inking the suspect's print, and meticulously comparing the two down to the miniscule space between ridges is an absolute waste of time." Andrew's fingers massaged his temple.

"As if the Mets aren't accustomed to wasting their time on frivolous methods of investigation," Holmes replied caustically.

I sighed, my head spinning with unconnected threads of information. "This is all well and good, but it only has a chance of working if we have a suspect. What's the closest thing to a suspect we have? Some vague rumor of a man wearing a leather apron?"

"Evidence is evidence, my dear," Holmes gestured wildly at the thumbprint. "Besides, look at it closer. What do you see?"

"A great deal of smears," John muttered, shaking his head and blinking as he tried to study the tiny intricate patterns.

"Alas, my dear fellow! What you see in the center is not a smear, but a disruption in the ridges of skin! The man we are looking for has a noticeable scar on his thumb."

"How does this narrow our scope of suspicion?" Andrew asked desperately. "Are we to go up to anyone who rubs us the wrong way and ask to see their thumbs?"

"At least it's a beginning to a description of him," I offered wearily.

Andrew shook his head. "You said there was more, else did you manage to sneak away from those oh-so-villainous Mets?"

"This partial envelope folded to create a packet for pills." Holmes presented the next item in the collection he'd brought from his desk, the torn envelope I'd discovered near Annie Chapman's shoulder.

Andrew furrowed his brow and picked up the dirty envelope gingerly by the corner. "You think this was hers?"

John leaned over Andrew's shoulder to peer at it for the first time since the inefficient darkness of the Hanbury Street yard. "Well, it was found an inch away from her severed intestines, I truly doubt it was coincidentally there."

"That's the envelope the pills were in," I confirmed. "Open it up, you can still see some of the powder in there." Andrew squeezed the edges of the packet open and stuck his nose in. He must have inhaled some of it, for he started to cough, and Holmes snatched it from his hand before he dropped it. I rolled my eyes. "Whether or not the letter was hers, she was in possession of it, and used it as a container for her pills."

"An impromptu one, it would seem," John offered, standing and going to his desk, opening his Gladstone bag and retrieving something from one of the compartments. He returned to the table, holding up a small cardboard box which proclaimed 'Tincture of Cadmium.' "Medicinal tablets of a more common variety are often sold like this. It is far less costly packaging than glass jars and bottles, and the cardboard is stiff and durable, unless kept and frequently handled for months upon months, and subjected to the wear and tear of residing in an Unfortunate's pocket."

Holmes clapped his hands together. "Very good, Watson! You have succeeded in seeing beneath the surface, as I so often chastise you to do."

John returned the pills and snapped his bag shut with an irritated undertone. "I am a doctor, Holmes, it is my job to draw conclusions about the inner workings of affairs. If only I had thought to apply my degree to my own flatmate sooner."

His words sliced through the air like a dagger, and Andrew raised his brows and met my gaze. I bit my lip closed.

Holmes, on the other hand, simply ignored John's pointed jab. "Thanks to your insight, my dear doctor, I think it safe to presume for the moment that Ms. Chapman's original pill box broke down and she was forced to improvise a packet for her remaining pills. The questions remain: where did this happen, and who was the envelope addressed to?"

Andrew, still rasping slightly, leaned into his own hand. "Again, what bearing do these specifics have on the case?"

"Andrew, if you ever hope to rise up through the Metropolitan ranks, it would be good of you to remember that no possibility can be ruled out until we can certainly prove it absurd," Holmes warned, wagging a finger in his direction.

"Fine," Andrew conceded. I could tell his patience was wearing slightly thin, and I couldn't blame him. Despite his assurances that his childhood left him well-equipped to handle it, the tension in the room was about as heavy as an anvil, and even without my brother glaring in his direction, Holmes could be short tempered enough to test anyone's limits. "Fine, so it's not irrelevant. What's that other specimen you're holding?"

Holmes set down the glass vial in the center of the table next to all our other pilfered evidence with a plink, making a sort of motley lineup of the objects from which we must catch a murderer.

"A splinter of wood." Andrew sounded unimpressed.

"From the Hanbury Street fence!" Holmes exclaimed, jubilant as though he were announcing his engagement.

"You know this...how?" John tilted his head.

"Because it matches a tear I found on the side of the fence, of course! And it has blood on it!"

John and Andrew peered closer. John shook his head. "Holmes, that is an old fence in the London slums. I'm sure plenty of splinters are missing from it. And you take notice of this one because it has blood on it? _Blood_ _on_ _it_ , a foot away from a body whose carotid artery was thoroughly severed? Good God, I wonder…"

The sarcasm had crept back into his voice with a vengeance.

"Don't be ridiculous, Watson, of course it's not the victim's blood. We both examined what we could see of the extremities, and there was no sign of a splinter having been imbedded anywhere. Besides, if it broke off on her when she fell, then how came it to be plucked out?"

"You think the killer got a splinter." Andrew sounded no more impressed, nor did he look it.

"Holmes, you know I read every credible medical periodical in the country. Naturally there's talk of each individual's blood being microscopically unique, much like fingerprints, but how can you hope to track the murderer based on a splinter?" John was growing more impatient by the second.

"Watson, surely you are aware that we don't have all the cards in our hand. At least not as of yet. Something may come up which connects everything with perfect clarity."

John pushed himself up from the table and stalked to the window, clearly avoiding setting eyes on Holmes. "Cocaine truly is getting to your head," he muttered as he went.

Holmes' gaze snapped away from the presentation of evidence on the table. "What did you say?"

"I think you heard me."

"I heard you, of course. My hearing is acute. What I want is for you to look me in the eye and repeat yourself."

John whirled around on his heel, his turn furious and heels clipped with the everlasting military spirit. "You are killing yourself!"

" _I_ _am_ _solving_ _murders_."

"You are solving nothing! I have never seen a man push himself so far past his limits."

My breath caught in my throat, and my pulse began racing. The tension in the room had quickly mounted, and I looked to Andrew for help. He met my eyes, ran his thumb across the buttons of his jacket, which hung over the back of his chair, and flitted his eyes towards the sitting room door in a question.

I quickly stood, relief flooding my veins, and announced, "We're going out."

Neither man replied, and I wasn't about to stick around long enough for them to, so I snatched a cream-colored shawl from the rack and swept out the door.

"Well, Miss Watson, may I interest you in a belated luncheon?" Andrew asked in the foyer, bowing me towards the door.

A flush crept into my cheeks. "I'd love nothing more. Regeant's up the street is simply delightful."

"Then it's settled. After you, my dear."

As I turned to wait for him to pull the door closed, I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hudson in the back of the hallway, smiling endearingly with her hands clasped over her heart.


	16. Chapter 14

_A/N: Here's my other uploaded chapter! Now, a few things. This is literally twice the length of my normal chapters, the reason being that this is an inquest chapter, and an important one, as it's Emily's first time in the inquest room! There's also a **warning for self harm in the beginning-ish of this chapter** , just a heads-up for y'all. Other than that, enjoy some courtroom-esque detective work, and please leave a review! - Ell_

* * *

Over the following day, the volatile mood in the Baker Street rooms seemed to simmer down a great deal.

On the 9th, the night before the inquest into Annie Chapman's death was to begin, I was carrying fresh linens from the closet in the upper hallway down to put on my bed. As I passed the door to the sitting room, which was ajar, and heard voices quieter than I had in near a week. My curious spirit overcoming me, I stopped to listen, easing myself into the shadows.

"...Holmes, we both know I cannot in good conscience simply cut you off from your stimulants."

A long shadow thrown by the firelight passed in front of the two inch opening. John was pacing, but the posture suggested it was more thoughtful than aggravated.

"Awfully kind of you not to throw me headlong into that pit, Doctor," remarked Holmes wryly from the direction of his armchair.

"No…" mused my brother, his voice fading in and out as he paced. "You shall keep your little box, for the time, at least. It won't do to have you become so seriously ill during this investigation. Particularly when the public eye is soon to be upon us, as per our inquest appearances. But you are to cut back tremendously, and I will supervise you in doing so. You will not have access to it unless I give it to you. Might I suggest my desk?"

A grunt from Holmes. "I can make the assumption its lockbox offers the same protections as mine."

"Yes, I'm sure I-"

It would appear I was not destined to hear more of this conversation, for John caught a glimpse of what I can only guess was my blasted skirts, and closed the door with an annoyed glance.

* * *

Clean sheets smoothed over my bed and quilt tucked in after I'd requested John's help in holding up the mattress on his way to bed, I wrapped my dressing gown around my middle and eased myself into my desk chair. I twisted the latch that held it closed, and as I opened it, something fell out of one of the pigeon holes with a thud. Startled, I looked down. Sebastian Moran's pocket-knife glinted in the gaslight.

Suddenly, my fingers twitched in my lap, seeking it. I stopped for a moment, considering. Why should I need it now, of all times? Though the past two days had been rather uncomfortable, they hadn't been particularly traumatic. Unless one counted the crime scene? All that blood. It could be mine. Not all of it, of course. My aim was not to die. Only enough. Just enough. And the inquest tomorrow...the first one for which I'd be in the room. Just a little something to put pressure on to keep myself steady in the morning.

My left sleeve was raised before I even realized it.

Afterwards, something pulled me upright. I don't know what it was. Some loneliness, perhaps, or the need for comfort. This had never happened before. Knowing that my brother was abed, I gravitated to the sitting room, shaky and dizzy, not from blood loss, but from the strange euphoria that the knife brought me.

The sitting room door was open, as we always left it at night, and the lights dimmed, but not off.

Hearing my halting step in the doorway, Holmes whirled around as though caught in the act of something, It was only then that I realized he was at John's desk. He tried to stuff what was in his hand into his trousers pocket, but not before I saw that it was his pocketbook of lockpicks.

He opened his mouth to say something, to make some excuse, but I cut him off. "Your lockbox may be John Watson-proof, but his lockbox is not Sherlock Holmes-proof."

"So you heard that, earlier. Yes, well...it's more difficult than it would seem at first glance."

As though the subject of glances reminded him, his eyes flitted up and down my figure, trying to ascertain what I was here for.

Sherlock Holmes' gaze had the mortifying ability to make you suddenly realize everything about your person that you had failed to conceal, before he even spoke. I actually felt the crosshairs of his steely eyes focus on my arm, tucked against me at a protective angle, and my sleeve, which I had failed to pull down properly, and which was rumpled around my elbow.

"I should go," I murmured, and turned to hole myself up in my room again. I was unsteady, and growing more so each moment that I stood. But shame burned in my cheeks, and I didn't know why I had sought this out.

Like a whip, Holmes shot out and grabbed my arm. My left arm. I inhaled sharply, and my knees almost buckled beneath me.

"Emily," Holmes said quietly.

I couldn't face him. I couldn't. But I had to, because at that moment, my vision turned to stars, and I fell forwards straight into his arms.

Holmes held me upright and led me to the sofa, my hands suddenly ice within his grasp. He knelt in front of me to look in my eyes. His face swam in front of me, and upon seeing how unfocused I must have looked, he cursed and crossed the room in two steps. A moment later, or what I supposed was a moment, though I had no concept of time, he returned, waving a crystal glass of sloshing amber in front of my face. "Drink this. It'll take away the faintness."

The turpentinous stench of the brandy nearly turned my stomach, but I gulped it down anyway. The alcohol burned down my throat, but soon the burning turned to a not unpleasant warmth that slowly began inching its way along my body and clearing my vision.

By the time my head was clear enough to see, Holmes was beside me, reaching for my rumpled sleeve, which felt a little damp, come to think of it.

I automatically jerked my arm away from him, but he again caught it in his grasp, this time by the wrist. "If you do not want me to wake Watson, then you must let me look."

"You can't-"

"I can't what, clean a cut?"

"You know what -" I couldn't even finish my own sentences. Just thinking about my arm made the dizziness come back again.

"The brandy glass is only half gone. Finish it. You'll need it, there's a decent amount of blood here, did you not realize that?"

I looked down for the first time. There was more blood than the few droplets I'd routinely come to expect. The sleeve of my dress was stained all the way through. It was wider than John's purloined razor had made them, too. The pocket-knife must have a thicker blade. Curses, curses. A year I'd been keeping this knife, but I hadn't thought to use it before, thought to test it. Had I been saving it for something?

My vision blurred again, and I downed the rest of the brandy. I must have made a sort of whimper, for I heard Holmes murmuring to me faintly over the muffled pounding in my ears.

"You're all right. Breathe, now."

"But my dress! How will I explain to Mrs. Hudson -"

"I will take care of it. Do not fret, now. Breathe deeply. I'll be right back."

His long legs made quick work of the room, and it only took me one slow blink before he had returned to my side with John's whole medical bag.

I swallowed, my entire throat burning. "Won't he miss the supplies?"

"Emily, we're not taking everything, and when he is in need of this bag, he is not liable to take logical stock of everything in it. Lay your arm out now, palm up. And don't look down at it, it'll make you more dizzy."

Holmes pulled his handkerchief from his dressing gown pocket and pressed it firmly to my arm, his thumb on the cloth and his middle and forefingers on the opposite side of my arm.

I opened my mouth to protest the use of his personal handkerchief, but he again stopped me. "You are in no position to argue. Now take a breath and tell me what happened."

"I...I'm not quite sure. Nothing was wrong, really, I just thought that it would…"

"That it would help. I know. The bleeding's slowed enough, I'm going to clean and bandage it for you and I want you to go to your room and change out of that dress. Leave it outside your door before you retire, I'll come get it."

"I think…" I paused. "I think I'd rather come back up and sleep here tonight, if that's all right."

Holmes nodded briskly as he wrapped gauze snugly around my forearm. "Bring the dress back up with you. Go on." He patted my knee and stood to return John's bag to its spot on his desk, and I gathered my equilibrium and stood.

* * *

My eyes were open well before John limped into the sitting room the next morning. This was fortunate, as it gave me a chance to make sure no part of my arm was visible.

"Did you sleep here?" My brother asked, stopping just inside the doorway at the sight of the large afghan blanket tossed across the sofa, and my nightgowned figure still curled up underneath it.

I nodded, trying my best to appear sleepy. "Yes, I couldn't sleep in my room."

His brow furrowed. "Any reason?"

"No, I simply felt uneasy, that's all."

John nodded thoughtfully. "I see. Go get dressed. We've an early breakfast and a long morning ahead of us."

I swung my legs over the side of the sofa to touch the floor, tilting my head curiously. "You're not going to make a last effort to protest my coming?"

He sighed and eased down into his chair at the table. "You know that I would like to, but the matter is too far out of my hands. It has been since you arrived here, even if I did not want to admit it. You have all the humanity of a Watson, but the determination of a Holmes. This can and, I'm sure, will, get you into quite a lot of trouble, but I'd much rather you do it here than without us. Not only is there the matter of your nature, but you'd already been exposed to brutal crime before you came to us. It isn't my place to try and reverse what has already been done. I can only try my utmost along with Holmes to keep you safe doing as we do."

I stood and crossed the room to him, resting my hand on his shoulder. "Thank you."

My brother set his hand on top of mine and squeezed. I gave him a smile and went to dress for my first legitimate inquest.

* * *

Holmes' hands trembled noticeably through breakfast and as we got into the cab, though he did not appear physically nervous at all. I could only assume it was his far reduced consumption of cocaine, as he offhandedly mentioned to John that he'd slept "quite well, if you're inclined at all to ask."

John grunted satisfactorily, but made no other response, seeming to prefer running his fingers along his notebook in silence.

 _That_ ' _s_ _right_. I snapped my head up. "You're to appear today, aren't you?" I asked. "As attending physician at the crime scene."

"I should hope so," he muttered, fanning through his worn pages like a deck of playing cards. "Anything else would be an astounding breach of ethics."

I met his gaze. "Do you really think they care about ethics? After the secrecy talk at the first inquest?"

Holmes cleared his throat. "Despicable though that was, it was all public relations and politics. This is the integrity of the entire investigation, plain and simple. If they want to catch the man, they'll make a sacrifice once in a while."

Seeming disturbed at the thought of an alternative, Holmes abruptly changed the subject and spent the remainder of the ride thoroughly berating Inspector Abberline's condescending seizure of evidence.

When we arrived, Andrew was waiting at the entrance to the Working Lad's Institute, stoic and unmoved by the constant stream of people milling all around him. He shook hands with my companions and embraced me, and we walked in proudly as a group of four, rather than surreptitiously as a group of two pretending not to be together.

PC Smith once again held his post by the stairwell, and I would have instinctively broken away to slip up it had Andrew's hand not held me fast to his side.

The young constable met Andrew's gaze and nodded, looking as though he wanted to question his presence again, but had decided not to given his proximity to the high profile consultants.

Holmes led us into the dining hall, a room far wider than it was long. The number of stiff, wooden chairs shocked me. Large though the room was, it may as well have been a tiny one-room schoolhouse for all the space that was left.

I expected Holmes to want a seat in the front rows to observe the witnesses, but he made a beeline for the very back row on the right side.

"Why do you want to sit in the back?" I asked him as we waited for a group of boisterous men in sporty bow ties who were blocking entrance to our row. "Don't you want closer proximity to the witnesses for purposes of deduction?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Emily! I can see miniscule details from back here perfectly. My eyesight is far from impaired."

"With everyone's heads in the way?"

"You forget, my dear, that I am the tallest person in this room. No, I choose the rear of these quarters because it allows me to gauge the responses of everyone in front of me."

"You can't even see their faces!"

"Shoulders and necks reveal much more than you think. Halloa, what have we here?" He cut off our conversation at the sight of something happening behind me. I turned.

Inspector Abberline was striding purposefully across the crowded hall, making it clear from halfway across the room that his sights were set on us. Or, it appeared, more specifically on John.

"What can I do for you, Inspector?" Holmes asked jovially, clapping his hands together as Abberline approached.

Abberline glanced at Holmes with annoyance. "My business isn't with you, Holmes." He turned brusquely to John. "Hand over your notes, Doctor Watson."

My brother looked sincerely taken aback. So aback, in fact, that he quite literally took a step backwards. "I need them to testify!"

The Inspector laughed. "You thought you were testifying today? You thought you were _testifying_?"

"I was physician at the crime scene, wasn't I?"

Abberline's voice lowered nearly an octave. "Not as far as anyone outside of that yard is concerned. Our commissioner is facing criticism, our constables are facing criticism, and our assistant commissioner is in bleedin' Switzerland. We will not have our drunken arse of a surgeon facing criticism as well. He is set to testify in a few days' time, so he'll have time to familiarize himself with your findings. Now hand them over or I will take them from your pockets by force, and believe me, neither of us want that sort of a scene."

"You can't do this," John said, stunned, a hand clasped over the inside pocket of his coat where his notes were safely stowed.

I'd never known exactly what it meant for a mustache to bristle with anger, but not only did Abberline's mustache bristle, but so did his entire countenance, if it could normally be called un-bristled. He took a step forwards, and nearly shoved a finger in John's chest before he thought better of it and curled it into a fist. "No, no, Doctor Watson. We can do what we must to keep our heads above water. But you, lowly amateurs, can't pretend you have enough sway over the case to stop us."

Then, so softly, so subtly that I knew none outside our conversation would notice, Abberline put his hand inside my brother's coat. John stiffened and sucked himself in as Abberline moved his hand aside and retrieved the small notebook.

"Now that wasn't so hard," he said with a smile, his voice silky smooth. "Thank you, Doctor. We'll alert you as to whether or not your notes will provide us with further evidence." With that, he walked away, his limp nearly sending him sprawling over the cane of a primly dressed gentleman.

The four of us stood in stunned silence for a long moment before I came back to the moment. "But he _can_ ' _t_ do that. Can he?" I turned to Holmes, finding him to have his jaw set so hard I feared he'd puncture his tongue, then turned to Andrew.

He swallowed hard and brushed a hair out of his face. The situation was too serious for me to find it endearing. "I do believe that he's right to say that they can publicly take credit for anything brought to them by amateurs, -"

"Watson and I are not amateurs," Holmes suddenly hissed, cutting off Andrew. "People _pay_ us, we consult!"

"But you are not paid by a larger organization," Andrew clarified wearily. "As I was about to say, I will find an appointment with Superintendent Arnold later this afternoon and inquire of him before we make conclusions. And besides, Holmes, aren't you always adamant that Scotland Yard taking credit for your work is more rewarding to you than being celebrated?"

Holmes turned on his heel to claim our seats. "That isn't the point."

John sat on the outside of the row so that he could stretch out his bad leg, then Holmes sat to his right, not disputing my brother's seating and folding his long legs so that he looked much like a beanstalk trying to fit in a much too small pot. I sat on Holmes' other side, hoping to gain some instruction on this revealing language of shoulders and necks, and Andrew capped off our party, placing his hat in his lap and folding his hands around it uniformly.

The Coroner, Wynne Baxter, swept into the room through a back entrance that undoubtedly led to the kitchens. His presence was so subtle that no one but the officers in the front row took notice of him and stood, yet he filled the room with a commanding air. He stood about five feet and nine inches, from my estimates, and seemed to resemble a large hock of ham. The cravat tied atop his robes was arguably loose, yet fit so snug and had turned his neck so pink that I feared it would cut off his circulation. His hair was dark, curly, and Welsh, and his mustache, the same shade, appeared as though some wiry shrub had taken up residence on his face. I could not tell if he was truly so thick around, or if it was just the effect of his layered and billowing robes. Either way, it was far more startling than Mycroft's girth.

He sat down behind one of the dining tables, which had been moved to act as a desk, and on which his ink and official papers lay. Only when he pulled a gavel from his robes and knocked loudly on the wood did the room seem to realize that he was present - a feat which I found impressive, as ignoring him was rather like ignoring an elephant.

"I hereby call to order this first convention of the inquest into the murder of Ms. Annie Chapman," Baxter said in a dull, no-nonsense voice, which sounded quite peculiar coming from a Welshman. He then read the vague facts of the case from the paper in front of him: chiefly that the victim had been found in the backyard of 29 Hanbury Street in the early hours of Saturday morning, that she had been horribly mutilated, and that any women and children still present should consider themselves warned of such.

A woman near the back of the room shooed her two impish-looking children out the door, which I thought was ridiculous, as they were clearly about to throw themselves to the cracks under the door to eavesdrop anyway.

Giving the room a stern sweep with his eyes to be certain there were no shenanigans ongoing, Baxter shook the wrinkles out of his sleeves with an air of finality and begun. "John Davies is called to the stand."

The stand, as I soon gathered, was a stool to the right of the Coroner's desk upon which the witness sat after being fetched from outside the room to give his deposition and answer the Coroner's questions. I'd read enough penny dreadfuls to know that more permanent courtrooms like the Old Bailey were far more sophisticated than this, but until a criminal was apprehended, there was no need for a court.

John Davies was a smallish, pudgy man, not as much well stuffed with food as he was well stuffed with drink. His eyes were tired and watery, and the skin underneath them looked as though it had been sagging for many years. As shabby as he appeared, he had put on a well laundered suit jacket with elbow patches and a tweed cap.

He deposed that he was a carman, or cart-driver, at the Leadenhall Market, and had lodged at 29, Hanbury Street for about a fortnight. Along with his wife and three sons, he occupied the top room on the front of the third floor. I supposed that meant he lived on the half of the house adjacent to the street instead of the yard. The night of the murder, he retired around 8 o'clock, and his wife soon thereafter. His three sons remained up, and the last of them went to bed just before 11. There was a small window across the room, but neither it nor the curtain was opened at night. Mr. Davies slept uncomfortably and was awake from three until five in the morning, and then drifted off until a quarter til six, when the clock at the nearby Spitalfields Church struck. He took tea and went down to the backyard through a passage at the side of the house - the same one through which we had entered hardly an hour later. He said that none of the doors could be locked, and anyone who knew where the latch was could easily get into the yard without light.

The Coroner asked if the door was already open when he entered the yard, and Mr. Davies said it was shut, but he could not remember if it was latched. The front door which led to the street was wide open, but it had not struck him as unusual.

Coroner Baxter then asked Davies to describe the yard, which was large and had a woodshed on the left side, as I recalled. I zoned out the description other than filing away that Davies estimated the fence between yards as five feet six inches in height.

"I hope the police will supply me with a plan," Baxter said, tapping the handle of the gavel against his palm restlessly. "In the country, in cases of importance, I always have one." It was then that I remembered that the Coroner mainly lived and worked nearer to Cardiff than to London.

An Inspector I didn't know, but who Holmes muttered to me was named Helson, stood up to offer his suggestion. "We shall have one by the adjournment of the hearing."

Baxter chuckled gruffly, and fixed Helson with a look that made him immediately sit down. "Yes, and by that time we'll hardly need it! Continue, Mr. Davies."

Haltingly, and seeming haunted by recalling it, Davies continued, detailing that there was an especially dark recess in the left-hand corner of the yard, right up against the house. It was three feet wide from the fence to the steps, which were unprotected by railing on either side. My breath caught in my throat as I pictured the scene perfectly, having stood and gazed upon the body which had lain in the recess.

Davies had seen a woman laying in this recess when he opened the door, with her head towards the house and legs towards the shed. Upon seeing the body, he did not enter any further into the yard, but left by the front door and alerted two men on the street whom he knew by sight, but not by name. He only knew that they worked for a packing-case maker on the street.

Baxter turned to the row of police officers. "Have the names of these men been ascertained?"

"I have made inquiries, but have not found them," replied another Inspector.

"Chandler," Holmes hissed at me before I could ask. He had begun shaking his left foot restlessly, causing his right leg on top of it to bob up and down wildly. He must have deduced something, for the only time he took issue with sitting in one position for an extended period was when his brain was solving a puzzle at the speed of light.

"They must be found," Baxter commanded with an air that suggested any and all officers should leave to do so immediately, but that if they tried to leave the inquest, they would be stricken down by lightning.

The front row shifted uncomfortably.

"They work at Bailey's," offered Mr. Davies. "I could not find them on Saturday as I had my own work to complete."

Baxter ground his teeth irritably and dropped his gavel on the table. "Your _work_ , Davies, is of no consequence compared to this inquiry!"

Mr. Davies drew back slightly. "I am giving you all the information I can."

"You must find these men out, either yourself, or with the assistance of the police."

Davies swallowed hard and nodded, waiting for a moment to be sure Baxter had finished attacking his solid work ethic before he went on. Bailey's was three doors down, and the men came into the passage with him to see the body. They as well did not enter the yard, but ran to find a policeman. Mr. Davies left the house with them. While the two men went searching for a constable on beat, Davies went to the Commercial Street station to report his find, having not alerted anyone else in the house. After a while he came back to Hanbury Street and saw a number of constables there, but did not go in.

Mr. Davies had never seen Annie Chapman before, and knew from Mrs. Thompson, the head of the house, that there were sometimes women - prostitutes - in the passage and yard, but he had never seen any, as he had only been there two weeks. Baxter finally asked if Davies had heard any noises earlier that morning, to which he replied that he had not. He was then dismissed, and walked to the back of the room, shoulders slumped as though telling his tale had put even more weight upon him.

The next witness called in was Amelia Palmer, who had identified the body the afternoon after the murder. Her and her husband lived in the same lodging house as the victim on Dorset Street, and had known Annie Chapman well for five years. She had been widowed 18 months ago, and had been married to a former veterinary surgeon named Frederick Chapman. They had lived apart for four years or more preceding his death, and Annie moved between many lodging houses as her circumstances dictated. She only learned of her husband's death from a brother of hers in Oxford Street, after she stopped receiving checks with a portion of his pension. Her nickname at the time was "Mrs. Sivvy" because she had been living with a sieve-maker. On the previous Monday, Palmer had seen the deceased across from her Dorset Street lodgings. She had a bruise on one of her temples, possibly the right, and another on her chest. She told Palmer the name of the woman who had given them to her, and asked if Palmer knew her, but she could not remember the name. The deceased told her it was a woman who sold books, and that they both knew a man named "Harry the Hawker." On September 1st, there had been a disagreement at a pub and the woman had injured her. The next day, Palmer saw her again, looking pale, and she remarked that she felt ill. Palmer gave her twopence and suggested that she go to the casual ward.

"What did she normally do for a living?" Asked Baxter, seeming more satisfied with this deposition than the last.

Ms. Palmer responded that Annie Chapman had crocheted and sold flowers, but was not often desperate enough to turn to prostitution. She usually went to Stratford on Fridays to sell her wares. Palmer saw her on that Friday, the afternoon before her death, and asked if she was going, but she replied that she felt too ill to do anything, and that she would have to find some other way to pay for her lodgings that night. Baxter then asked if she knew of anyone who would have wanted to harm the deceased, but Palmer replied in the negative.

Before he could dismiss Ms. Palmer, Inspector Chandler handed him a slip of paper, which he glanced at before speaking. "It appears doubtful that deceased's husband was a veterinary surgeon. He was more likely a coachman." I could only assume the paper had contained records of the sum of money that her husband had sent to her each month.

Timothy Donovan sat upon the stool next. He was deputy of the lodging house Annie Chapman had most recently been at, and confirmed that she had been staying there on and off for four months. He had not seen her the previous week until Friday afternoon, when she asked if she could go into the kitchen. He did not see her again until between one and two o'clock Saturday morning, when she came to him in his office and said she didn't have enough money for her bed, which cost eightpence, but to save it for her, as she'd be back in before long. She then went to the kitchen and ate some potatoes before going out, stopping in the doorway to remind him not to let the bed. At this time it was just before two, and she left walking in the direction of Brushfield Street.

"Was she the worse for drink when you saw her last?" Baxter asked, leaning back in his chair with his head leaning against his hand thoughtfully.

Mr. Donovan replied that she had certainly had enough, but that she was still walking straight. He told her that she could spare money for her beer, but not for her bed, and she said that she had only been up the street. She had a very bad cough. He had not seen her with any man that night, nor did he agree to allow her a bed anytime she was with a man. Donovan added that she used to come round on Saturdays with a pensioner who had a military appearance, but that he hadn't seen them together since September 2nd.

Inspector Helson interrupted to say that the police knew nothing of this pensioner.

"Describe him to me," Baxter said flatly.

"Well, sir…" Donovan began slowly, considering. "He was between forty and forty-five years old, about five feet and six or eight inches in height. Sometimes he was dressed as a dock laborer, and other times as a gentleman. He had rather dark hair. She always used to find him at the top of the street."

Baxter nodded, his expression never changing. "Was the deceased on good terms with the other lodgers?"

"Always. Although, her and another woman had a row in the kitchen on August 28th, but no injuries came of it. I heard the watchman say, though, that they'd had another fight a few day later, and that she had gotten several bruises. She showed them to me on that Thursday."

"Do you know the woman's name?"

"No, sir, but her husband is a hawker of lace and things."

Coroner Baxter dismissed Mr. Donovan with a wave of his hand and called the final witness of the day.

John Evans was night watchman at the lodging house around which most of the testimonies centered. He saw the deceased leaving at about a quarter til two in the morning on Saturday. He was sent down to the kitchen to see her about her bed, but she did not have enough money. When she left, he saw her turn through a court called Paternoster Street, into Brushfield Street, and towards the Spitalfields Church. She was drunk, but not awfully so. The pensioner she had been seen with came by midway through Saturday afternoon, having heard a rumor about her death. Mr. Evans did not know his name or address. When Evans told the man that she had been murdered, he left without saying a word.

"Did you see the deceased and another woman have a row in the kitchen?" Baxter asked, not showing any sign that he was bothered by the sound of this pensioner.

"Yes, on Thursday the 30th of August, near lunchtime. Her and a woman called Eliza quarrelled over a piece of soap, and she was hit a few times."

"Was the deceased threatened by anyone?"

"I have never heard anyone threaten her, nor express any fear of any one. I have never heard any one of the women in the lodging house say that they had been threatened, in fact."

"Thank you, Mr. Evans. This inquiry is adjourned until Wednesday morning."

Since Timothy Donovan had given a description of the pensioner, Holmes' leg had somehow picked up its pace, and he seemed keen to leave and allow his legs room to stretch as his mind worked.

We stayed only long enough to ascertain that there would be no post-inquest drama, then filtered out with the remainder of the crowd to wait for an available cab.

Once we had set off for Baker Street, I turned to Holmes. "You only grew more and more restless since John Davies described the yard and the passage," I pointed out to him. "What did you learn?"

"Two things," Holmes said, a glint in his eye. "Well, one and a half, really. But only one thing from John Davies."

"We're waiting, Holmes," said John wearily after Holmes hadn't taken it upon himself to continue. Always the dramatic, he waited for someone to pursue the information he held tantalizingly in front of us.

"In your expert opinion, Watson, how long would it take for a man reasonably familiar with anatomy to inflict the wounds and mutilations to the corpse?" Naturally, Holmes had to draw out his explanation as long as he could.

My brother furrowed his brow and considered. "In dim conditions, I myself could not have done it in less than ten or fifteen minutes."

Holmes nodded grimly. "A good estimate, my man. Now before the inquest began, the men near our seats were discussing rumors of a witness who has not yet been called."

"You overheard their conversation?" I asked incredulously, raising my eyebrows. "In the midst of talking to me and Abberline's appearance?"

"A worthy investigator can divide their attention several ways, Emily," replied Holmes. "Yes, I overheard them. One of them spoke of an acquaintance of his, who saw Annie Chapman and another man go into the backyard of 29, Hanbury Street at exactly half past five."

Andrew leaned forward, excitedly. "If they went into that yard, it must have been her killer."

"Indeed. Now if they went into the yard at exactly half past, her murder and subsequent mutilation took, we'll say, fifteen minutes for a man acquainted with anatomy but not an expert in the subject, and John Davies came through the passageway and into the yard at a quarter til six...this leaves our man virtually no time to spare. Davies said that the door between the passage and the yard was shut, but the door to the street at the other end of the passage was wide open. Thus, we are faced with a killer who had ample time to quietly and entirely close the first door upon leaving, but was too rushed to bother with the second. We can certainly conclude that he was still on his way out of the passage when John Davies came out the side door. Either he heard the door opening and ran out onto the street, or he hid himself in the shadows of the passageway until Davies' back was turned - while he was in the doorway to the yard - and then slipped out. Either way, John Davies was mere yards away from the murderer."

A hushed silence fell over the cab, and goosebumps rose on my arms. Perhaps he would have seen the man if he had only turned around.

"What about the other thing you know?" Andrew asked. "Or, the half thing."

"Timothy Donovan's description of the pensioner was quite enlightening."

"Holmes, half the men in London could plausibly fit that description!" I exclaimed.

"My dear, it is not his age, or height, or hair color that seasons the dish. It is true that he could be half the men in London, but the extreme variance in his dress shows his deception, and reveals that he is certainly not what he claims to be."


	17. Chapter 15

_A/N: I have a couple more chapters done for you! Look out for some hints this chapter, things you may remember from The Sign Of Four - the events of which are coming up soon... (Also please review if you are reading. I have essentially one reviewer on this story, who happens to be one of my best friends.) - Ell_

* * *

Chapter 15

* * *

In all the excitement of the inquest, and my distraction before we left, none of us had a chance to read the papers until we returned to Baker Street and were being served luncheon by Mrs. Hudson.

Andrew sat beside me and pulled his chair up close, waiting for the sandwiches to be passed around. "Holmes, I've been meaning to tell you that -"

"A hundred pound reward for information leading to the capture of the Whitechapel Killer?" Holmes scoffed loudly enough to make me wince as he opened the _Times_ with his usual flourish.

"That exactly," Andrew finished, his hand in the air as though he'd been about to raise a finger but was interrupted before he could. "Samuel Montagu issued the decree first thing this morning. He's an M.P. in the department under my father, and I suspect my father was the one who secured its favor with the Home Secretary."

"That bastard," Holmes snarled under his breath. "I think we can all say for certain that no M.P. cares enough for criminal justice to issue a reward for its sake."

"That should be their job!" I exclaimed, incensed, as I picked at the greens on Mrs. Hudson's refreshing sandwiches.

" _Politics_ is their job, Emily," Holmes replied bitterly as he skimmed the rest of the paper with his eagle-sharp, speedy eyes. "Scotland Yard and the rest of the Mets only upkeep the law, not make it or twist it. Puppets, all of them…"

"If they're a lot of puppets, Holmes, then why do you never show them the kindness their puppeteers are denying them?" John asked wearily, taking care to choose coffee instead of tea and fiddling with his watch anxiously.

"Because being manipulated from behind the curtain, Watson, while restricting your actions, does not excuse you from following the protocol of your job _written_ by the puppeteers!"

Andrew rubbed his temple. "I cannot speak for Scotland Yard, Holmes, but the Whitechapel division is doing the best we possibly can."

Although Holmes gave no sign of it, I knew that he had heard Andrew. In his infuriating custom of changing the subject by ignoring the previous one, however, he simply continued his own one-sided conversation with the table. "I see the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee has a new head...rallying for an organized leader, no doubt. Andrew, what do you know of this George Lusk?"

"The Superintendent had him into the station last evening," Andrew replied, turning his teacup around in circles on the tablecloth. It was starting to bunch up in that spot, so I straightened it out and brushed a comforting hand lightly across his elbow. I knew his anxiety was high, and I couldn't fault him for it. He breathed in and continued. "He's a man of action, that's for sure. Anyone can see that the second he steps into a room. If nothing else will spur an increased police presence in the district, he will."

Holmes hummed in answer and continued flicking his eyes back and forth across the page. "Oh, I don't give a hurled harpoon that Prince Albert Poobah is back from his royal gallivant."

I spat my sip of tea back into the cup and wiped the splatter from the corner of my eye. "A _hurled harpoon?_ "

John held up a finger. "During Holmes'...abatement of...certain stimuli, I have persuaded him to channel his excess restlessness into coining new profanities based on our previous cases."

"Certain stimuli?" Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow and leaning forward with the glint of a suspicious inspector in his eye.

"Coffee," Holmes cut in before my brother could open his mouth. "I have had a little too much as of late."

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I expect you'll reach that page any time, Holmes, and I want you to hear it from me."

For the first time, Holmes looked up from his paper, lowering it just enough so that his piercing eyes and the hook of his nose were visible over the top. "Lestrade. What did you do?"

"I did nothing, Holmes! Why would I be at fault? I only wanted to notify you that H Division has arrested the man Leather Apron on suspicion of the murders."

"Oh, I am quite aware," Holmes replied flippantly. "It was the talk of the inquest this morning, if you with ears had chosen to hear."

The wince frozen on Lestrade's face faded as slowly as winter in the Scottish Highlands. "You...aren't angry?"

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous. They'll realize their mistake soon enough. He didn't do it."

"I know."

"I mean for God's sake Lestrade - wait, you know?"

"I am not an imbecile! I was there as much as you were when Coroner Baxter made it clear that the public will be made to think a tradesman is behind it all. Besides, I saw him signing his statement before I came to the inquest this morning - I was delivering archival manuscripts at Superintendent Arnold's request. He's left-handed, and considering how little he seemed to know his way around a piece of paper, I doubt he'd be any more familiar with the human body."

"I am quite sure they'll release him once they realize he doesn't know a uterus from a uvula," Holmes muttered, snapping the paper closed and leaning back.

It was beginning to appear that I would not be able to enjoy my tea during this conversation, as every witticism from Holmes resulted in my expulsion of the liquid I had just taken in.

"Holmes, _language,_ " John sighed, removing a stray rye seed from his sandwich crust.

"Watson, you are a medical man. If a female body part is suddenly too profane for you, then I must insist that you move out! This is certainly not a case I can pursue in such a strict household."

I pushed my cup and saucer away from me. At this point it was becoming more saliva than tea.

Holmes flipped through the last few pages of the newspaper quicker than seemed possible for him to read the headlines. All the same, he tossed it behind him, and it smacked against the window before hitting the floor. Having nothing in front of him, he then proceeded to attack his sandwich with ravenous fervor.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "It must be considerably strong _coffee_ you've been weaning off of, Holmes," he said wryly. Then, having polished off two sandwiches and a cup of tea himself, pushed back his chair and donned his coat stiffly. "I should be on my way. There's an Everest of paperwork waiting for me if I want to make it back to my wife in time for dinner. You know there's a host of imbeciles writing to us claiming to be the murderer? We have hundreds, and each and every one has to be accounted for. It's overwhelming as is." He shook his head, bade us goodbye, and left.

I turned to Andrew. "You haven't said anything about these letters!" I hadn't meant to sound accusatory, but he quickly opened his mouth to defend himself.

"They're certainly all hoaxes," he said meekly, spreading his hands out on the table in front of him. "Both Scotland Yard and the Whitechapel station are receiving them from all over Britain, and they give no incriminating information. Those that mention the supposed time and date of the next killing have been set aside, and extra constables have been sent to the vicinity. We haven't had a sign of anything as yet, and if this keeps up we can't keep spreading ourselves thin for nothing."

As he spoke, his shoulders stiffened, and he glanced at the clock. "Speaking of which, I've been assigned Montague Place tonight, there was a threat made this morning."

Holmes snorted. "Montague Place?"

"I know, I know. I expect the only activity involving prostitutes will be supplied by inebriated University students, but it's the Superintendent's orders. Anyhow, I have much to get in order before dark."

He stood from his chair, draped his coat over his arm, and kissed the top of my head, squeezing my shoulder as he did so. "See you soon," he whispered in my ear, and left.

I returned to my tea, mostly to hide the smile on my face, and looked up from an extended drink to see Holmes and John staring at me. Suddenly, it came to my attention that Andrew and I hadn't done anything more than embrace in front of my flatmates.

"What?" I asked, my voice higher than it should have been.

They continued to stare.

"Oh, come on, you can't pretend you didn't know! John, just the other day you walked in and said he was wooing me! And Holmes, I know you're clueless about the romantic sentiment, but you're Sherlock Holmes!"

Holmes stood uncomfortably and paced to the window. My brother continued to blink at me until he spoke in measured tones. "Of course we knew, Emily, we...had just assumed...that you would tell us before you...escalated things in front of us."

"Oh, for the love of - I didn't _plan_ for him to kiss me! And I'm sure he didn't think about it, either! Are you going to be those overprotective guardians when it comes to courtship?"

John sat back, relaxing his posture. "You can handle yourself in murder, it seems, so it stands to reason you can handle a young man, as well."

"Good." Something welled inside me, and I laughed. "Just a year ago, Holmes was warning me that Andrew would only bring me trouble."

Holmes turned slightly from the window and smiled wryly for a fraction of a second. "He was the son of the Commissioner, and he was around far too often."

"There's a reason for that," I said softly, thinking of the conversation Andrew and I had had in my bedroom so recently.

Holmes cocked his head, and I changed the topic. "So has he earned your trust now?"

I watched the reflection of Holmes' face in the windowpane as he followed a small spider along the outside of the frame. "Perhaps."

* * *

The next few day was mostly uneventful, other than Andrew popping in on his way home for a clean shirt to tell us that another cock-and-bull accusation had been made. The 'suspect' in question was a local Jew who was reported by a pair of local doctors who saw him engaging in 'suspicious activity,' which turned out to be entering his front door after a late shift at the slaughterhouse. He was interviewed and completely cleared within the space of half an hour.

That night, John retired early with a small sedative tablet, hoping to get a full rest before the reconvention of the Chapman inquest the next day. I did not envy how exhausted he had seemed since the whole affair began. The horrifying murder scenes had taken its toll on him as a student of the human anatomy, and the ordeal concerning Holmes, his closest, dearest, and possibly only friend, certainly didn't help matters.

But there was something else. The day he had discovered the Moroccan case in which Holmes kept his syringe, he had walked to the post office on Wigmore Street - a trip he normally made every few days - and returned bearing a letter and package that he carried as though it had the weight of a millstone. The letter had already been torn open, but the wrapping on the package was intact. Something about the letter, or the sender thereof, had prompted him to rip it open for news as soon as he received it, but the parcel was not of such urgency.

I made a note to ask Holmes about it after I heard the distant thud of my brother's door shutting. He was balancing two of his pipes in his hands when I turned to him, as though something about the weight determined which one he was going to smoke.

"Holmes?"

"Yes, my dear Emily?"

"What's the matter with John lately?"

Holmes bouncily decided on the option in his left hand, his most used clay pipe, blackened from use. He returned the other to the rack atop the mantelpiece and turned to me, his brow furrowed. "Whatever do you mean? Actually - hold your words a moment. Come sit on the sofa and tell me while I take a look at your arm."

It wasn't until that moment that I remembered how much it itched and burned beneath the bandage. I had done a better job than I'd anticipated blocking out the discomfort.

Before explaining my concerns about John to Holmes, I waited in suspense to see what the wound on my arm looked like when he unwrapped it.

The skin around the laceration was bright red, and though it had scabbed over well, the wound itself was puffed up so far around the edges that it obscured the ends of the scab. I grimaced at the sight, but the look of worry on Holmes' face faded when he saw it. "It's minorly infected, but I've had far worse. There doesn't seem to be any pus in the wound, which is excellent. It means we don't have to reopen the wound at all. But I am going to clean it again. Breathe deeply, this will sting, and tell me about Watson."

He pulled out a swab and bottle of antiseptic from John's bag, which I hadn't even noticed was open beside him. The first touch of the dampened cotton felt cool and relieving - it wasn't until a few seconds later that the pain began, so sudden that I clenched my fist against it.

Holmes set a shockingly gentle, reassuring hand on the taut tendons of my wrist. "Try to relax. We're moistening the scab, which weakens it. It is liable to rip if you put too much strain on it right now."

I took a long breath and managed to unclench my hand.

"Good. Now, Watson."

He continued to clean as I relayed to him the details I had recalled. I found that if I didn't look down and if I kept talking, the pain lessened greatly.

After a few moments, he put aside the antiseptic. I chanced a look down. The swelling had already gone down considerably. Holmes tossed the old bandage into the fire and wrapped a new one firmly around my arm. Then he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and pressed his thumbs against his forehead.

"Holmes?" I asked quietly, flexing my fingers to gauge my range of movement.

"He was right," whispered Holmes after a moment.

"What?"

"Watson was right. My constant use of cocaine has dulled my senses rather than heightening them. I failed to notice that my Boswell, my faithful Boswell, was in need. Naturally he would choose silence over burdening me - he has always preferred to shoulder his own load. But I _failed._ God only knows what else I've missed."

"Holmes, don't be so hard on yourself. This case has been...exceptional compared with your ordinary consultations. Anyone would be distracted."

"Emily, you noticed. Perhaps not at once, but you did. We both know that as the only one of us with such extenuating circumstances, cause and effect line up with their target on my forehead." He continued to stare straight ahead.

There were a few moments silence, for I didn't know what to say in response. Eventually, Holmes spoke. "You should head to bed, there will be much to do tomorrow."

I nodded, unsure if he could see my response, and stood.

"Emily?" he called out wearily when I was halfway to the sitting room door.

I turned around, which he seemed to notice in my step, for I didn't even have to open my mouth to respond before he continued. "Your arm is healing well, we only need to wrap it one more day until the swelling has completely receded. We can take the bandage off tomorrow."

"All right, Holmes. Goodnight." I took another look at the great detective, made humble by his hunched shoulders and mournful air, still pressing his thumbs to his temples. He had never even bothered to light his pipe.


	18. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

* * *

Wind woke me in the morning, shaking the panes of my window and bringing a chill that seeped through the floorboards and under my quilt. I shivered as I shuffled across to the window in my stocking feet, making a note to wear the woollen stockings from the linen closet and the heavy boots from under my bed.

The summers had been colder than normal for years now, but this was the worst, and I only hoped it would be the last. As I found when I had first come to London a year ago, a day when the sunshine reaches your skin is hard enough to come by in the metropolis. But five years ago, a volcanic eruption from the Indonesian islands had turned even the skies in Thorndon a hazy gray as ash was blown thousands of miles, and the sunlight could barely filter through. My sister and I had been kept inside for weeks until the sky cleared.

The thought of my sister sent a chill up my spine, and I quickly turned away from my faint reflection in the window to dress.

I could tell that the swelling on my arm had gone down considerably overnight, but it still itched incessantly, and I could not wait to take the bandage off.

When I got to the sitting room, both Holmes and John were awake and fully dressed for the inquest, and they were leaning close to each other at the end of the table, talking softly. Too soft for me to make out more than isolated syllables over the crackling of the built-up fire.

As I approached the table to pile my plate with toast and prepare my tea, I caught my brother's final words on the matter. "Really, Holmes, I am honoured to have caused you guilt, but I am all right, simply tired. That is all."

I raised my eyebrows at Holmes as I took a chomp out of my breakfast, and I could have sworn he raised them back at me somewhat playfully.

Andrew was once again to be meeting us at the Working Lad Institute, so following breakfast, the three of us left. Holmes called goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, who had been scarce since breakfast.

We had almost left when John patted his breast pocket, swore slightly, and announced that his spare notebook was in his desk. I had forgotten that his notes from the crime scene had been confiscated by Inspector Abberline at the last hearing, and I felt a little more uncomfortable. When John had trudged up the stairs to retrieve his spare, I turned to Holmes.

"Were you talking about his peculiar behavior when I came in to breakfast?"

Holmes shifted his stance and looked at the ground. "Yes, but he would not say what is wrong. He claims to be tired by the case, and his old wound set off by the weather, but that is not all. You were right to tell me about it last night."

By the time I managed to swallow the lump in my throat, John was back, and Holmes and I broke eye contact as we filed outside to call a cab to Whitechapel.

* * *

Andrew met us at the door, fidgeting with the officer's number embroidered on his collar, looking like he'd hardly slept.

"Everything all right?" I whispered to him as he embraced me and we walked into the building.

"I had the pleasure of sleeping at home last night," he explained, "and my mother was having an episode."

I threaded my hand into his and squeezed reassuringly.

Inside the building, we made our way as normal towards the room where the inquest was being held. We made it about three quarters of the way there before a somewhat familiar voice called through the crowd, "Dr. Watson!"

The four of us turned almost in unison, John looking as though he hoped it was anyone but Inspector Abberline. It wasn't. It was a constable who appeared to be in his late 20's, with dark hair, a cleanly trimmed mustache, and kind lines along the edges of his eyes.

Andrew cocked his head. "Constable Smith?"

"Lynch." The young man nodded politely at him, huffing and puffing from his jog through the crows to reach us. His eyes, however, remained fixed on my brother.

"What can I do for you, Constable?" John asked, broadening his shoulders and straightening his jacket unconsciously.

"I've got reporters out my ears, sir, and I can't explain it. At the scene of the latest murder, I'm quoted as contesting that the placement of certain organs outside the woman's body is certainly not indicative of a ritual. Hacks must've gotten an informant into a uniform and through the gate."

John's eyes narrowed. "Then it seems to me perfectly simple to explain."

"I wasn't there, sir, and reports are saying the bloke was quite a piece shorter than me, and in plain clothes, too."

Icy fear shot through my heart as I remembered the incident in question when I was searching the ground around Annie Chapman's body. There had been a constable taking notes on John's preliminary examination. He had asked to quote me, and I had given him the name William Smith. Why would a constable have asked to quote me? Why would a constable taking notes be asking at all about ritualistic aspects? Good God, I had been foolish.

I could tell from the way John froze that he had suddenly recalled the incident as well. He paused for a moment, clearly trying not to look in my direction. "Well...I'm sure the name was taken down wrong. Or perhaps this is one of those purely fictional accounts the press concocts to arouse sensation, and they came about the name some other way."

"Sensation's already aroused, sir. And seeing as this took place beside the body during your examination, I should think you'd remember it yourself."

John's gaze had been drifting off to the side, clearly longing to be through the doorway, but it instantly snapped back as he realized his error. "Of course, Constable...Smith. Of course I remember it. Well, I assure you that we'll look into who this fellow was. Just be glad they didn't agree that it was ritualistic, or you'd have a lot more heat on your back, eh?"

He patted Smith near the elbow and was ready to walk away when Smith turned his head to me, narrowed his eyes, and asked, "Pardon, Miss, but do I know you?"

Panic struck my heart again. Oh no, oh no, had he recognized me from the crime scene? Of course not, for he had just told us he had not been there. It took what seemed to be a long, long moment before the panic passed and I realized that I did, in fact, know him.

"I...yes. Last year I managed to walk lost in thought from Scotland Yard all the way to Whitechapel. You were patrolling the area, and escorted me to a cab stand. You even paid for my fare back to Ba - back home."

He smiled. "Of course. Glad to see you safe, miss."

"Your accent seems fainter," I commented with interest.

Constable Smith smiled. "Yes, miss. I'd just returned last August from visiting my family up North, in Derbyshire. It's always stronger when I come back."

We looked around us then to see that the entryway was growing emptier by the minute. All the local citizens were either in the inquest hall or were slowly filing away from this public spectacle.

"I'd better get in there, I'm to keep order and separation among the witnesses," Smith said, and with a tight-lipped smile and a small wave mostly at me, he walked away.

" _Fascinating_ damage control there, Watson," Holmes said, clapping my brother on his good shoulder with a smirk.

John groaned. "I am very glad I didn't specify my name. I'm sure they would love to print _that_ whole scandal."

By the time we got into the room, the only available seats were a small cluster in the back right corner. Holmes grunted as we sat down. "Nowhere near as centered as I would like, but the back is still the back."

This time, I watched for Coroner Baxter to enter the room. He was wide as before, and he eased himself into the wooden chair behind his table gently. It still gave a loud creak.

"I now call to order this reconvening of the official inquest into the murder of Annie Chapman, prostitute, on 8th September at 29, Hanbury Street approximately six o'clock in the morning. The Metropolitan Police are here represented today by Inspectors Joseph Helson and Frederick Abberline. First witness to the stand."

I frowned and cocked my head. The first meeting of the inquest had not required police representatives. Was something different? I turned and whispered my inquiry into Andrew's ear.

"This meeting will delve into testimonies from the scene of the crime, not just local residents," Andrew returned.

I leaned forward in the hopes of catching everything that happened. I had, after all, been to the crime scene myself.

While I had spoken to Andrew, a tall, stockily-built man with a dark tan on his lower arms and a thick mustache had come to sit in front of the room. His name was Fountain Smith, and he had been the brother of the deceased. He had viewed the body at the mortuary and identified it as his sister, the widow of a coachman named John Chapman who had lived in Windsor. The married couple had been separated about three years.

"I last saw the...deceased a fortnight ago in Commercial Street, where I met her promiscuously." He shifted uncomfortably.

Baxter raised his eyebrows.

My stomach squirmed and I turned to Holmes this time, craning my neck to mutter into his ear. "What does that mean, _met her promiscuously_. Oh, God, please tell me it doesn't mean -"

"It means that he was in the East End hoping to come across a cheap prostitute and he happened across his sister. Notice that he did not mention what time of day he was in Commercial Street, like witnesses normally specify. Clearly it was at night."

I made a face as I reexamined the tree trunk-like Mr. Smith with this information in mind. His face was ruddy and he was attempting to sit straight up in his chair, although he seemed to wince whenever he pressed his knees together.

There was a beat of silence in the room as Fountain Smith struggled to tear his eyes away from his boots and look out at the Coroner and room full of spectators once again. "I gave her two shillings," he said at last. "She did not say where she was living or what she was...doing. She wanted the money for lodging."

Holmes sniffed and nodded in victory. "Aha! My conjecture was correct - if he had seen her during the day, she would not yet be in need of two shillings for a bed."

Baxter blinked slowly and measuredly at Smith, his face expressionless. "Did she say anything of her associates?"

"No," replied Smith simply, his arms folded in his lap and twitching as though he would like nothing more than to fold in on himself. He was dismissed from the stand, and leapt up with such relief that the chair scraped backwards a few inches.

A man named James Kent was called next. He was of indeterminable age - his hands were weathered and calloused, but his cheeks were quite smooth and young, despite the nicks along his jawline from an unsteady hand with a straight razor earlier that morning. He wore a peculiar overcoat which dropped to his knees, and I could only assume it had been green before an ill-advised wash had turned it a cross between freshly tilled soil and a musky green fungi I remembered from the woods in Thorndon. The lower part of his neck was ensconced in a large white handkerchief with blue polka dots, which paired so horrifically with his coat that it was difficult to concentrate on his face.

Kent managed a terrified brisk walk up to the witness chair which looked like a limping waltz that exclusively moved forward but wanted to backstep right out of the room. As soon as he sat down in the chair, his visibly trembling hands crept into his coat pockets, and he squeezed his neck completely into the folds of the handkerchief like a socially anxious turtle.

Baxter eyed him dubiously before flipping a page in his large notepad and leaning forward slightly, nodding for Kent to begin.

"I work as a packin' case maker for Mr. Bayley, sir, in 23A Hanbury Street, and -"

The Coroner held up a hand. "Please state your address for the inquiry, Mr. Kent."

When Baxter had spoken, Kent's neck inched its way out of the handkerchief, and when it was his turn to speak, his neck again vanished. "20, Drew's Blocks, Shadwell, sir."

Baxter made a note on his pad. "Very well. Continue."

"I go to work at six o'clock every mornin', sir. On Saturday I arrived about 10 minutes past. The gate was open, but I didn' see anyone about, so I waited for some other men. Davis, who lives two or three doors away, ran from his house into the road. He said, 'Men, come here!' So James Green and I - he'd just arrived, see, hadn' even said good mornin' - went with him to number 29. Goin' on through the passage, and comin' to the top of the back door steps, I saw a woman lyin' between the steps and the partition between that yard and the next. Her head was near the house, but none of her body was against the fence. The feet were lyin' backwards towards the back of Bayley's."

Baxter gestured at some officers in the front row, who stood and unrolled a blueprint with a rough diagram of the yard. "Like this, you mean?"

Kent's neck protruded. "Yes, sir, exactly there."

Baxter nodded and gestured at the two officers who held the diagram between them, and they returned to their seats. Kent's neck retracted.

"Her clothes were...disarranged." He made some vague gestures at the lower half of his body. "The others went down the steps to see closer, but I went back through the passage and returned after Inspector Chandler arrived. I could see she was dead. She had some kind of handkerchief," here he gestured to his own neck, or lack thereof, "wrapped 'round her neck, and it looked like it was soaked in blood. I didn' get close enough to be sure, though. Her face and hands were besmeared as well, like she'd struggled. Looked like she'd been on her back and fought with her hands to free herself, maybe. The legs were wide apart and there was blood smeared on them. The, ah, entrails, were protrudin' and across her left side. I got a piece of canvas from our shop to throw over the body, and by that time there was a mob formin' and Inspector Chandler had taken possession of the yard. The foreman of the shop gets there at ten minutes to six every morning. He had been there before us, but he was in the back and I hadn' seen him."

Baxter rubbed his temples from the moment Kent started giving his own ideas of how the victim had struggled, and after a moment he dismissed him, thanking him for the thoroughness of his testimony.

Next came James Green, of Ackland Street on Burdett Road, a shorter fellow with a frayed gray overcoat and wiry brown hair, close-cropped but unruly. "I'm occupied at the same location as Mr. Kent," he said. "I arrived in Hanbury Street about ten minutes past six on Saturday morning, and I went with Kent to see the body in the yard of number 29. Then I left the premises with him soon after."

"Did you touch the body?"

"No, sir."

"Did you see anyone touch the body?"

"No, sir."

I saw gears turning in Baxter's hard blue eyes for a moment, realizing that nothing in his barebones statement could be different from Kent's all too colorful elaboration. "Dismissed," he said at last.

A woman was ushered in next, Amelia Richardson, a widow who occupied the first floor, ground floor, and cellar workshops of 29, Hanbury Street. She was a small but plump woman in her 60s, with a weathered face that was soft around the edges, and eyes that continually watered. She wrung a stained handkerchief in her lap as she spoke. Her sentences were short and spoken carefully.

"I carry on the business of a packing case maker in my portion of the house. The basement shops are used by my son John, aged 37, and a man Francis Tyler, both of whom have worked for me 18 years. The latter, Tyler, that is to say, ought to have come at six o'clock on Saturday, but he did not arrive until I sent for him at eight. He is often late when our work is slack. My son lives in John Street, and he often works in the market mornings it is open. At six o'clock on Saturday, my grandson, Thomas, who is 14, woke up. I sent him down to see what was the matter, for there was much noise in the passage. He ran back in a moment later and said, 'Oh, Grandmother, there is a woman murdered!' I came down immediately, and saw the body lying in our yard. There was no one there at the time, but there were people talking in the passage. Soon after a man with the police came and took possession of the yard. He was the first one to come in, that I saw."

Baxter had looked utterly bored with Mrs. Richardson's beginning ramblings about her employee's lackadaisical habits, and although his expression had hardly changed, he seemed to have listened, and began to question her nonetheless. "Which room do you occupy?"

"The first floor front, and my grandson had slept in the same room Friday night. I went to bed about half-past nine, and was wakeful most of the night. I was awake at three o'clock of the morning, I know that, and after that only dozed."

"Did you hear any noise during the night?"

"No, sir."

Baxter leaned as far forwards as he was able and rested two of his fingers against his upper lip thoughtfully. "Who occupies the first floor back?"

"Mr. Walker, a maker of boots for lawn-tennis. He's an old gentleman, and he sleeps there with his son, who is aged 27. The son is weak-minded, and inoffensive to all humankind. There are two rooms on the ground floor. Mrs. Hardiman occupies both of them with her son, who is 16. She uses the front room as a cat's meat shop. In the front room of the first floor, on Friday, I had a prayer meeting, but before I went to bed I locked the door of the room and took the key to bed with me. It was still locked in the morning. John Davies and his family tenant the third floor front, and Mrs. Sarah Cox has the back room on that floor. She is an old lady I keep out of charity. Mr. Thompson and his wife, with their adopted little girl, have the front room on the second floor. Saturday Mr. Thompson came down to leave for work at four o'clock, and I called good morning to him. I heard him leave the house and through the front door, he did not go into the backyard. Two unmarried sisters have the second floor back, they work at a cigar factory. When I went down that morning, all of the tenants were in the house except for Mr. Thompson and Mr. Davies, whom you already know had left."

Baxter let the woman slowly recount the rooms and activities of all the tenants. "Are the front and back doors always left open?" He asked finally, when he was sure she was done.

"Yes, sir, you can open the front and back doors of any of the houses about the area. Since they are let in single rooms, people are coming and going through the ground floors all day and night."

"Did you ever see anyone in the passage at night?"

"Yes, about a month ago I heard a man on the stairs by the door. I called Thompson to go inquire of him, but the man said he was waiting for market."

"And what time of night did this happen?"

"It was between half-past three and four o'clock, because Thompson was awake but had not gone for work yet. I could hear anyone going through the passage as well as I could hear them through the house. I did not hear anyone on Saturday morning."

"And yet a woman and her killer managed to get into the backyard, and the killer managed to leave," Holmes murmured beside me.

"You heard no cries?" Baxter asked her.

"None."

"Supposing a person had gone through at half past three, would this have attracted your attention?"

"Yes, sir, the walls are thin and the gate squeaks. You cannot close it without a racket unless you know of it beforehand."

"And do you consistently hear people going through the backyard?"

"Yes, sir, people frequently do go through."

"People who have no business in doing so?"

"I should say so."

"So you would say this night was unusually quiet?"

"Unusually so, sir."

"So you are confident that no one came through on Saturday morning?"

"I am absolutely confident. I was awake and on alert, as I said. I should have heard the sound."

"Might they have walked purposely silently?"

"Perhaps - but they would need to be knowledgeable of the layout of the building and passage, or they should not have been able to do so."

Mrs. Richardson looked at her lap quietly for a moment, but then raised her head and stuck out her lower lip in the sad defiance of someone trying to hold back righteous tears. "I should not allow any stranger through for an immoral purpose if I knew of it."

Baxter drew in a slow breath and considered the woman. "Very well. You are dismissed."

The next witness was Mrs. Harriet Hardiman, the resident who sold cat's meat out of one of her rooms. I supposed a sizeable portion of the foot traffic through the ground floor of the house was to her shop. She was a ruddy woman of about fifty with kind eyes and a sharp nose.

"Friday night I went to bed about half-past ten," she began strongly and clearly. "My son sleeps in the same room. I cannot speak for my son, but I did not wake during the night. At six o'clock I was awakened by all the trampling in the passage. My son was asleep, and I told him to go out and see - I thought there might be a fire. He returned and said a woman had been killed in the yard."

"Did you leave your room after he told you of the murder?"

"I did not, sir."

"Have you heard people going through the passage to the yard before?"

"Yes, but I never got up to see who they were."

Baxter dismissed her. I shifted my legs in front of me and silently wondered if there were many more depositions to go. With all the cross-examination, it felt like ages had passed.

Andrew noticed my restlessness and seemed to read my mind, brushing hair away from my ear so he could whisper to me. "There's still a while to go. I heard some officers discussing today's list of witnesses when I was about to leave the station last night."

I wanted to groan loudly, but I simply let out a tense breath through my mouth. I sorely wished I had eaten more than toast before leaving Baker Street.

The next man to be ushered to the front of the room while I adjusted my legs and absentmindedly rubbed a crick in my neck was John Richardson, son of Amelia, aged 37, resident of John Street, Spitalfield. He had the appearance a kind, but shrewd man, and his face was smooth save for a small, contained mustache and a few wrinkles under his eyes.

"I assist my mother in her business," he began, sitting ramrod straight against the back of the chair. "I went to 29, Hanbury Street between 4:45 and 4:50 on Saturday morning, to see if the cellar was all secure. Some time ago there was a theft of some tools, you see. I have been accustomed to going there on market mornings to check the cellar ever since the robbery occurred."

"Since it was a market morning, you would not have been there at all were it not to check the cellar?"

"No, sir."

"Was the front door open when you entered the passageway?"

"No, sir, it was closed. I lifted the latch and went through the passage to the yard door."

"Did you go into the yard?"

"No, the yard door was shut, so I opened it and sat on the steps and cut off a fraying piece of leather from my boot, using an old table-knife, about five inches long. I kept the knife upstairs in my room in John Street. I had been feeding a rabbit with a carrot that I had cut up, and then stuck it in my back pocket. I do not usually carry it there. After cutting the leather off my boot, I tossed it aside and put the knife back in my pocket. Then I left the house to go to market. I did not close the back door, there is a draft and it often closes itself. I shut and latched the front door on my way out."

"How long were you there?"

"Two minutes at most."

"Was it light?"

"It was just beginning to get light, but my eyes are strong and I could see all over."

"Did you notice whether there was any object outside?"

"If you mean the deceased, I could not have failed to notice had she been lying there. I saw the body who or three minutes before the doctor's cab arrived, I was then in the adjoining yard, in back of Bayley's. Thomas Pierman in the market had told me about the murder, and I went back to see that everything was all right in lieu of suspicious activity. When I was on the doorstep I saw that the padlock on the cellar door was perfectly in place."

"Did you sit on the top step?"

"No, the middle. My feet were flat on the yard."

"You must have been quite close to where the deceased was found?"

"Yes, I assure you I would have seen her. Would have stepped in the blood, too."

"You have previously been in the yard at all hours of the night?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you ever seen anyone else in the yard?"

"Yes, sir, plenty of times, and at all hours. Both men and women. I have often turned them out. We have had them on the first floor, as well, in the landing."

"You mean that they go there for immoral purposes?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Richardson, kindly go fetch your knife that we may see it."

"Yes, sir." Richardson nodded and stood.

"Constable Smith, escort him."

Smith, whom I had spoken to before, nodded from his station at the back doors of the room.

"And call Mrs. Richardson back in."

Another nod from Smith, and a moment later the lady appeared again, looking concerned that she had been recalled, and wringing her handkerchief more than ever. "Is there something else you require of me?" She asked as she sat down.

"Mrs. Richardson, your son has informed us that he came into the backyard at a quarter 'til 5 o'clock to inspect the lock on the cellar door."

"Yes, sir."

"You knew of his passing through but did not see it fit to mention?" Baxter's annoyance seemed to be growing.

"No, sir, but I am not surprised. At the beginning of August we found the padlock on the cellar had been broken during the night, and some of our crate-making tools had been taken. A saw and a hammer, it was. John often walks by to check the lock on market mornings, as it is on his way."

"So someone _did_ in fact come through the passageway."

"As I have said, sir, I did not hear anything, and I was unaware that John had come by. He is accustomed to the door, and is aware of how to open and close it silently so as not to rouse any tenants."

"Mrs. Richardson, have you ever missed anything, such as people coming and going through the house at night?"

"If I have, sir, I am doubtless unaware of it. But small and large sounds have woken me many a time, and I am confident in my ability to hear any ruckus. Indeed, I have such confidence in my neighbors that I leave some of their rooms unlocked."

"Which ones?"

"Thompson and Davies, for the most part, as they often leave quite early in the morning, and both have been known to lose their keys on occasion - but I am sometimes lax about locking their doors, since they are reputable people."

"Had you an idea, at any time, that any part of the house or yard was used for an immoral purpose?"

Mrs. Richardson clutched her handkerchief to her chest. "No, sir!"

"Do you know anything of a leather apron?"

The woman's brow furrowed. "Yes, my son wears one when he works in the cellar."

Holmes' knee began to bounce, and his shoe jostled the edge of my skirts. I could not easily pull them further under me, so I did my best to ignore it.

Baxter attempted to lean forward slightly, bracing his elbows on the arms of his chair. "It is a rather dangerous thing to wear, is it not?"

"Yes, sir. On that last Thursday I found my son's apron in the cellar, mildewed. He had not used it for a month. I took it and put it under the tap in the yard to soak it, but I became busy with our work and I left it there. It was found on Saturday by the police. It had remained exactly there from Thursday to Saturday."

Holmes made a small noise under his breath and muttered, "Evidence indeed."

"Was this tap often used?" Asked Baxter.

Yes, by all of us in the house. I left it on the stones right under the spigot. The police also took away an empty box, used to store nails, and the rusted steel out of a boy's discarded gaiter. But I know the police take whatever they find. There was a pan of clean water near the tap when I went into the yard at six o'clock on Saturday. It was there at eight o'clock on Friday night, and it was in the shadows but it looked to have not been disturbed.

"Did you ever know of strange women to be found on the first floor landing?"

"No."

"Your son has never spoken to you about it?"

"No."

"Very well. Dismissed."

Mrs. Richardson walked back down the aisle, still clutching her handkerchief to her chest, scandalized by any thoughts of strange women carrying on immoral activities in her house.

The next man called in raised a chorus of gasps and mutters as he walked down to the front of the room, and his downward gaze as the room full of locals recognized him made it instantly clear that he was not a witness, but a suspect.

John Pizer, a name of public infamy in recent days, sat shakily in the chair at the front of the room, hands clenched in white-knuckled fists in his lap, eyes fixed on some part of the floor he had envisioned to distract him from the erupting chaos around him.

"Murderer!" came a shout from somewhere on the left side of the room.

"Go home!" yelled another voice from the cacophony.

Pizer's shoulders stiffened and he raised his head to look at the room in defiance, his eyes miserable and dark circles proclaiming how much he had been dreading this day.

Baxter picked up his gavel and rapped it sharply on the table three times. "Order!" He called in a voice so piercing that the room immediately hushed, the silence taut and uncomfortable.

"I live at 22, Mulberry Street, Commercial Road East. I am a shoemaker," began Pizer, his voice shaking slightly despite his attempts to control it.

"Are you known by the nickname of 'Leather Apron?'" At this, murmurs began again, but Baxter silenced them with a single icy look at the offending section of seats.

"Yes, sir." Pizer shrank at the use of his nickname, and his voice was barely above a whisper.

"Where were you on Friday night of last week?"

"At my house in Mulberry Street. I arrived there on Thursday the 6th of this month."

"Where from?"

"The west end of town."

Baxter sighed and scribbled a note on his papers. "I am afraid we shall have to have a better address than that presently. What time did you arrive there?"

"Shortly before 11 o'clock at night, sir."

"Who lives at 22, Mulberry Street? Sergeant Thicke informs me you do not live there alone."

"My brother and my sister-in-law, along with my stepmother. I remained indoors there."

"Until when?"

"Until Sergeant Thicke came to arrest me the Monday before the murder at nine in the morning."

"You say you never left the house during this time?"

"I did not leave the house, sir."

"Why were you remaining indoors?"

"Because my brother advised me."

"You were the object of suspicion?"

"I was the object of a false suspicion."

"You remained on the advice of your friends?"

"Yes, sir, I am telling you what I did."

"It was not the best advice you could have had. You have been released, and are now not in custody?"

"I am not."

"Yet you have not been seen about your normal business?"

"I wish to vindicate my character to the world at large."

"I have called you in your own interests, partly with the object of giving you an opportunity to do so. Can you tell us where you were on Thursday, the 30th of August?"

Pizer bit his lip and thought for a moment before answering. "In the Holloway Road."

"You had better say exactly where you were. It is important to account for your time from that Thursday to the Friday morning."

"What time, may I ask?"

"It was the week before you came to Mulberry Street."

"I was staying at a common-lodging house called the Round House in the Holloway Road."

"Did you sleep the night there?"

"Yes."

"What time did you go in?"

"On the night of the London dock fire I went in about two or a quarter past. That was on the Friday morning."

"And when did you leave the lodging house?"

"At 11 o'clock in the morning on Friday, that same day. I saw the headline on the placards, 'Another Horrible Murder.'"

"Where were you before 2 o'clock on Friday morning?"

"At 11 o'clock on Thursday night I had my supper at the Round House."

"Did you go out?"

"Yes, as far as the Seven Sisters Road, then returned towards Highgate Way, down the Holloway Road. Turning, I saw the reflection of a fire. Coming as far as the church in the Holloway Road I saw two constables and the lodging-house keeper talking together. There might have been one or two constables, I cannot say which. I asked a constable where the fire was, and he said it was a long way off. I asked him where he thought it was, and he replied, 'Down by the Albert Docks.' It was then about half past one, to the best of my recollection. I went as far as Highbury Railway Station on the same side of the way, returned, and then went into the lodging-house."

"Did anyone speak to you about being so late?"

"No, sir. I paid the night watchman. I asked him if my bed was let, and he said, 'They are let by 11 o'clock. You don't think they are to be let to this hour.' I paid him four pence for another bed. I stayed up smoking on the form of the kitchen, on the right hand side near the fireplace, and then went to bed."

"You got up at 11 o'clock that morning?"

"Yes. The day watchman came, and told me to get up, as he wanted to make the bed. I got up and dressed, and went down into the kitchen."

"Is there anything else you want to add?"

"Nothing, sir."

"When you said the west end of town, did you mean Holloway?"

"No, another lodging-house in Peter Street, Westminster."

"Very well, you are dismissed. Thank you for your cooperation."

Pizer stood, his form straighter and more confident, and walked towards the door, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Baxter then spoke to the room. "It is, I think, fair to say that the witness's statements can be corroborated."

There was a brief pause in proceedings, during which I turned to Andrew. "Why was he so reticent at first? And he kept repeating the question in his answer. No one else has done that as of yet."

Andrew sighed deeply and rubbed his hands over the length of his face before answering. "I spoke with him at the station when he was in custody. I had sat as a third party witness during his interrogation, and he told me he was forced to abandon his shop and previous lodgings because of persecution from the local gossip. He was no longer safe living alone, and his brother and family agreed to take him in. Some other Jewish friends of his, the ones who advised him to remain inside, gave him some advice on being questioned. He said they told him that in their marginalized community, it is known that the public, even the police, will do everything in their power to incriminate you. That you must never simply answer 'yes' or 'no' to questions concerning your suspicion because they are liable to be pulled out of context and used to build a case against you."

"Is the prejudice against him really so bad?"

"Emily, since the Nichols murder, slummers employed by local rags began running sensational and altogether fictitious stories that police were looking for a man called Leather Apron, who was allegedly abusing female prostitutes. Well...read for yourself."

He pulled a clipping from a local gossip paper out of his coat pocket, highlighting descriptions people had given of the man in question, and handed it over to me.

 _He is 5ft 4 inches in height and wears a dark close fitting cap, he is thickset and has an unusually thick neck, his hair is black and closely clipped, he is aged between 38 to 40 and has a small black moustache. His expression is said to be sinister, his eyes small and glittering, his lips are usually parted in a grin, which is not only nonreassuring, but is excessively repellent. He always carries a knife and gets his nickname from a leather apron he always wears. He is said to be a slipper maker by trade, though does not work. His name nobody knows, but they are all united in the belief that he is a Jew or of Jewish parentage._

I gaped at Andrew. "But he looks nothing like that, aside from his general build!"

"Prejudice will turn even a Beauty into a Beast in the eyes of hateful people, Emily. Sergeant Thicke, who has known Pizer for many years, told us he knew Leather Apron to be Pizer's nickname in the area. He went to Mulberry Street on the 10th of September to take him to the station. Not even a proper arrest, mind you, that was the papers' idea. It was for his own safety more than anything, everyone agreed he'd have been torn apart by mobs if he set foot outside. As Baxter said, he's really only here to prove to the public that his alibis are sound. With as many witnesses as are in this room, no paper could spin this to further incriminate him of anything."

The idea of how much power a money-hungry publication had to incriminate an innocent man to such a level that he lived in fear of his life was frankly appalling to me. If he had been beaten to death by a mob, his blood would be on the hands of anyone who had printed that shameful story.

After this brief juncture, Constable Smith came into the room, jogging up the center of the room to tell Baxter that he had returned with John Richardson.

"We have one more witness pertaining to Mr. Pizer's testimony before we move forward," replied Baxter. "Please come to the stand, Sergeant William Thicke."

A solidly built man with straight and rigid posture and a squareish face rose from the front row of officers and came to the chair. He was not overweight by any means, I could see that his neatly buttoned jacket strained over a respectable amount of arm muscle. Rather than sitting in the witness chair, he chose to remain standing, hands folded neatly in front of him and clasping his hat.

Sergeant Thicke seemed to need no prompting or introduction from Baxter, for he began his concise statement right away. "Knowing that a man locally known as 'Leather Apron' was being sought in connection with unfounded rumors concerning these murders, I went to John Pizer and took him into my custody on Monday morning. I have known him by the name of 'Leather Apron' for many years."

Baxter stared, unblinking. "When people in the surrounding neighborhood speak of Leather Apron, they mean Pizer?"

"Yes, sir."

"And has he been released from custody?"

"He was released at half-past nine last night, sir."

"No further questions, Sergeant."

Thicke nodded briskly, and returned to his seat as confidently as he came. Then Constable Smith brought John Richardson back in to show his knife to Baxter and the jury.

"Here is the knife I used to cut my boot, sir. As it was not sharp enough I bought another at market that day." I straightened my back and craned my neck to look. It was a tarnished and blunted dessert knife, as might be used to cut a cake. I raised my eyebrows and wondered how it might succeed in cutting through a boot at all.

The foreman of the Jury then raised his hand, and I looked over to the far left in surprise. None of them had yet interjected in the inquests, and I had not even noticed them there, two small rows of chairs tucked in the left corner. "Mr. Richardson, your mother has told us she never knew of people using parts of the house for immoral purposes."

Richardson looked genuinely flummoxed. "Why, I have spoken about them to her before! She has heard them herself. Woke me in the night to have me shoo them out!"

Baxter nodded thoughtfully. "As you have another to suit your needs, I think we will detain this one for the present."

Richardson nodded, swallowing hard but trying to hide it, and laid the knife carefully on the table in front of Baxter.

"You are dismissed," said Baxter, so softly I almost couldn't hear him. "Thank you for your cooperation and patience." He then raised his voice. "Constable Smith, we have one last witness for today."

My legs ached and tingled with the mere proposition of being able to move soon, and I let out a breath of relief.

The final witness was Henry Holland, a man slightly below average in height and sporting a fair mustache, which seemed to normally be on the shaggy side, but which he had attempted to trim for the occasion.

Holland cleared his throat and looked to Baxter, who nodded, before beginning. "I am a box-maker by trade. I passed 29, Hanbury Street, on my way to work in Chiswell Street, at about eight minutes past six on Saturday. I stopped to say good morning to two of Bayley's men, and ask them how their work was getting on. An elderly man ran out of his house a few doors down and implored us to look in the backyard. I went through the passage and saw the deceased laying in the yard by the back door. I did not touch the body. I then went for a policeman in the Spitalfield Market. The officer told me he could not abandon his patrol on market morning. I looked around and could find no other constable. Going back to the house, I saw an inspector run up with a young man, about twenty minutes past six o'clock. I had told the first policeman that it appeared to be a similar case to Buck's Row, and he referred me to two policemen outside the market, but I could not find them. That afternoon I went to the Commercial Street station to complain of the officers' conduct."

Baxter consulted one of his papers before looking up again. "There does not seem to have been much delay. The inspector says there are certain spots where constables are stationed with instructions not to leave them, but to tell the personage to locate a mobile officer."

The foreman of the Jury cleared his throat. "That is the explanation, then?"

"Indeed."

Baxter dismissed Holland, then raised his gavel and tapped it twice on the table. "Inquest adjourned until tomorrow afternoon. The doctor will be here first thing tomorrow to speak of his findings."

As people began to file out, Baxter somehow managed to make himself heard over the din. "All police and consultants, stay back."

Holmes perked up considerably at this, and John adjusted his coat lapels as we waited for a path to the front to clear. Andrew looked vaguely nervous, but stood beside me with his hand steady on the small of my back.

"Do they know you've been...associating with the consultants?" I murmured in his ear as we started towards the front, a few paces behind Holmes and John.

"I don't know," he replied, sounding nervous and making sure to position me slightly behind Holmes so that I might remain out of view.

Baxter sighed deeply and rose to stand in front. "I've asked you all to stay and discuss concerns - Constable Lynch, this is _not_ the place for your girlfriend."

I could feel my cheeks turning scarlet as the faces of the dozen or so present officers turned to me.

Andrew, however, retained his composure. "All due respect, Coroner, but Miss Watson is with Mr. Holmes and the Doctor."

Baxter let out a sharp bark of laughter and turned to Holmes. "You mean to tell me that your fellow consultant is a _girl_? What mockery of your profession is this?"

John started to go slightly red in the neck, but Holmes, sensing his tension, elbowed him surreptitiously before speaking in calm, steely tones. "Coroner, Dr. Watson's sister stays or I will leave this case."

"Holmes!" I hissed.

From the other side of our semicircle, Inspector Abberline snorted. "As if more of a reason is needed to block you from investigation. You've done _nothing._ "

I knew Holmes wanted nothing more than to whirl on his heel and freeze Abberline solid with the chill of his disparaging tones, but he kept his calm and afforded the Inspector not more than a glance. "I think you all know very well that if you alienate me from this case, you will get nowhere. If you want the public rioting and beating policemen in the street, you are more than free to let me go. But I do not do this job to make money, I only care to have enough to live. I dedicate myself to this line of work simply for the bliss of mental stimuli, and to do my part to rid the streets of such heinous pollutants. If there is a crime which has attracted my attention, I will pursue it, whether it be professionally or not, and Inspector Lestrade will tell you that I am more than happy to give all credit to the police. You have read the Doctor's account of _A Study In Scarlet,_ have you not?"

I watched Holmes as his eyes swept the semicircle of officers. All of them nodded hesitantly, even Baxter, except for Abberline, whose hand thrust into his coat pocket for one of his pills, which he promptly chewed up with annoyance.

"Good. Then you will be aware that were it not for my methods, you would have no chance of catching the man responsible for these crimes, whether he be of high status or _otherwise._ " His voice dripped with disdain at the last word. "Emily Watson remains a part of this case as long as Doctor Watson or I do. I suggest you swallow your prejudice and move on with the reason you have beseeched us to stay behind."

Baxter pressed his lips together and glared slightly at Holmes, exhaling deeply through his nostrils, but ultimately continued, determined not to look in my direction. "I have asked you to speak with me today concerning the evidence found at the Chapman crime scene. Inspector Abberline, fetch it from the back room, if you please."

Abberline nodded curtly and walked briskly to the back room which I thought to be a kitchen, returning a moment later with a small cardboard box like the kind in which a recently purchased pair of shoes would be packed, setting it on Baxter's table so that we could crowd around it. I noticed offhand that his leg seemed stiff, but his limp appeared better than it had been.

"Right," Abberline intoned in his softly gruff voice, mustache bristling as he exhaled. "As I'm sure you all know, I am in charge of all inventory of evidence. If any object or information pertaining to the case is found, it passes through me." His cold hazel eyes flickered to Holmes.

Clearing his throat, Abberline removed the box lid. There were precious few items inside, and I catalogued them instantly. There were the scrap of cloth and combs from the inside of the envelope off of which Holmes had torn the fingerprint, as well as a selection of dim photographs of Annie Chapman in the yard, the entrails splayed over her shoulder, and a shot with the magnesium flash to show the visible handprint-shaped bruises beneath the carnage of her neck. The final two items, under the photographs, were two pieces of leather - the smaller one presumably being the piece John Richardson had cut off his boot, the other a fragment of the apron of Richardson's that his mother had left under the spigot. Something nagged at me about the apron, but I couldn't say what.

"We have next to no information on these items on top," Abberline told us. "The cloth has rusty patches we suspect to be blood the woman coughed up, thus it was likely used as a handkerchief. The combs are missing a few teeth, but have been cleaned free of hair. Our suspicion is that she was planning to pawn them. And you have all seen these photographs now, and you will see them again. Their contents will also be discussed by Doctor Phillips at tomorrow's inquest. Does anyone here know of any evidence concerning Chapman's murder that is not here?"

Out of the corner of my eye, a foot above me, Holmes' jaw twitched slightly. If one didn't spend every day and night with him, one would assume he had no tells whatsoever. But I knew better, and I knew exactly what caused him to twitch. "There was a scalpel," I burst out, before remembering that I was wanted to be seen and not heard, and only barely seen.

Abberline blinked at me. "A scalpel?"

"Yes, you took it from Holmes at the crime scene."

Holmes adjusted his stance, and his foot knocked against mine, only enough for it to appear as an accident rather than a warning.

Abberline's upper lip twitched beneath his mustache. "But you were not present at the crime scene, Miss Watson," he said carefully, and two things hit me at once.

First: I needed desperately to amend my outburst - the members of this circle should not catch on that I _was,_ in fact, present at the crime scene. Second: Abberline most definitely knew that I was, and knew that I was from the moment we locked eyes in the dawnlit gloom of that backyard. Still he protected me, and I had no idea why.

"Of course I wasn't, sir. Holmes told me that night when we went over our notes," I replied, careful not to pause a beat too long.

Abberline drew in a breath, averting his eyes to sweep the contents of the box once more. "I do recall the scalpel, now. It is possible one of the constables who filed the inventory under my command misplaced it with another open case. I will search for it immediately."

With his aggressive response to Holmes at the crime scene, I wondered if indeed he would, but he seemed genuine enough.

"I would now like to bring your attention to these two items." Abberline pulled the two pieces of leather from the bag. "This larger one," he held it aloft in his right hand, "was recovered by our own Inspector Lestrade, and given that it bears a cord on top, seems to be the apron that Amelia Richardson details leaving under the water faucet in the yard."

I knew what was amiss. "That's only part of it," I blurted.

Abberline closed his eyes in some bid for patience. " _What_ are you on about now, Miss Watson?"

"That's not the whole apron, like Mrs. Richardson said it was. Look, it's been slashed off at the bottom. As is, it would barely cover a man's breast."

Baxter furrowed his brow and rifled through his notes before landing upon what he wanted. "She's right," he said, looking more than slightly uncomfortable. "Amelia Richardson stated both here and to the police privately that she brought up her son's apron, not a part of his apron. Nothing was out of the ordinary other than its mildewed state, and surely she would have taken notice if her son's work apron had been chopped in half."

"Why would anyone slice off a part of a mildewed apron?" Asked Lestrade incredulously from his place slightly off to the side.

"That remains as yet unanswered," Holmes said, stepping forward to gesture and point. "But observe the edge left by the slice." He removed his pocket magnifying lens from his coat and flicked it open, bending down to peer at it himself, also running the tip of his finger along it to illustrate. "It is a remarkably clean cut. Any serration is invisible, which is not normally the case in leather. Any small disruption which could appear to be so is simply due to subsequent fraying of the material. What I mean to say, gentlemen, is that this was done by no ordinary workman's blade."

"Holmes, you are not possibly suggesting to me that the murderer made off with half of an old apron," Abberline monotoned, looking incredibly disgusted with Holmes' physical closeness to him.

Holmes straightened up immediately and was within two inches of Abberline's nose. "Where else would you imagine it went?" He asked coolly.

"It had been there since Thursday, Holmes, anyone could have taken it."

" _Anyone_ would not have been wandering through the backyards of Hanbury Street with a knife so sharp it needed not even serration to do its job. A knife already covered in _blood._ "

"Mr. Holmes," Baxter interjected, "how in the blazes can you know it was already covered in blood?"

"There are metallic traces of a red-brown substance across the bottom edge. They scrape off at the touch, and have the distinct iron scent of blood."

"Shelve this point for the time being, Mr. Holmes," Baxter said wearily. "We will investigate it when we have further information about the weapon or weapons used. For now, we have another piece of evidence to consider."

Holmes stepped back, and Abberline held up the other piece of leather. "The fraying on the top edge of this piece, and the dull, messy cut on the bottom edge, indicates that this piece is off of John Richardson's shoe. Since we have also gained the knife he claims to have used to remove it, I think it a good idea to line up the cut and blade to ascertain if they match. Holmes, I hate to say this, but you have the most expertise in spotting details, would you do the honors?"

Holmes stepped forward again, fingering his lens with a slight smirk on his face.

Abberline tossed the apron back into the box, and laid the shoe leather out on Baxter's table. He picked up Richardson's dessert knife, which _was_ serrated, though very worn, and lined it up against the edge as best he could. "Work your magic, Holmes," he intoned blandly.

"A millimeter upwards, Inspector," said Holmes.

Abberline thinned his lips but complied.

"It's a perfect match," Holmes announced after a moment. "And I think we can all agree that it is far too blunt to be considered a possibility for the murder weapon."

"Right," Abberline said with a breath, yanking the leather and knife from under Holmes' nose and placing them in the box. "The next reconvention of the Nichols' inquest is on the 17th of this month," Abberline continued after a moment. "After which we will discuss the evidence in that case. For the time being, you are all dismissed," he ended with authority in his voice. "Unless you have anything to add, Coroner?" He added, remembering himself.

"I do not, Inspector," Baxter said curtly. "You may all go."

The officers scattered, and Andrew and I were half turned around, but my eyes caught a glimpse of Baxter grabbing Holmes by the elbow. "A quick word," the Welshman muttered close to his ear.

I stopped Andrew, and we cautiously stepped back again, close behind Holmes and John.

The five of us were by now the only ones left in the room, so Baxter spoke plainly. "You're a good man, Holmes," he said. "I've watched a good many of your cases come through the Yard. Presided over a good lot of trials you brought about, in fact. I admire your methods greatly. But this is the only case of such magnitude you've worked in conjunction with the police, is that correct?"

Holmes nodded briskly in the affirmative.

"Your investigation methods are effective, yes, but a little too...aggressive for such a strictly controlled case. Be cautious not to overstep your professional boundaries. While you are on the payroll of Scotland Yard, you have to be subtle with the methods you use. I urge you to do whatever it takes, but watch yourself, Holmes, that's all I'm saying. I want to catch this bastard as much as you do, but if I want to keep my post, there's certain...things I must concede to. You know this from the last time we spoke. But I'm doing what I can." He clapped Holmes on the shoulder and walked off to the back room to shed his robes.

* * *

On the cab ride back to Baker Street for luncheon, all I could do was stare out the window, a heavy weight sitting in the pit of my stomach.

Andrew nudged me in the left arm, and I winced. He looked concerned, but I managed to play it off as being shaken out of my thoughts. "Everything all right, Emily?"

"Fine," I stammered out, "I just -" I took a breath and raised my voice from a whisper so that Holmes and John could hear me too. "I just wonder why Inspector Abberline kept his knowledge of my presence at the crime scene quiet twice now when...when all he wants is a reason to remove Holmes from the case."

Holmes turned away from the opposite window to meet our eyes. "I can do you one better: when my convex lens was trained on the knife Abberline was holding, I observed that his right thumb carries a scar which mars the print."


End file.
